p. 2THE BEST PIPE p. 2 In vain you fervently extol, In vain you puff, your cutty clay. A twelvemonth smoked and black as coal, ’Tis redolent of rank decay And bones of monks long passed away— A fragrance I do not admire; And so I hold my nose and say, Give me a finely seasoned briar. Macleod, whose judgment on the whole Is faultless, has been led astray To nurse a high-born meerschaum bowl, For which he sweetly had to pay. Ah, let him nurse it as he may, Before the colour mounts much higher, The grate shall be its fate one day. Give me a finely seasoned briar. p. 3The heathen Turk of Istamboul, In oriental turban gay, Delights his unbelieving soul With hookahs, bubbling in a way To fill a Christian with dismay And wake the old Crusading fire. May no such pipe be mine, I pray; Give me a finely seasoned briar. p. 3 Clay, meerschaum, hookah, what are they That I should view them with desire? Both now, and when my hair is grey, Give me a finely seasoned briar. p. 4HYMN OF HIPPOLYTUS TO ARTEMIS p. 4 Artemis! thou fairest Of the maids that be In divine Olympus, Hail! Hail to thee! To thee I bring this woven weed Culled for thee from a virgin mead, Where neither shepherd claims his flocks to feed Nor ever yet the mower’s scythe hath come. There in the Spring the wild bee hath his home, Lightly passing to and fro Where the virgin flowers grow; And there the watchful Purity doth go Moistening with dew-drops all the ground below, Drawn from a river untaintedly flowing, p. 5 They who have gained by a kind fate’s bestowing Pure hearts, untaught by philosophy’s care, May gather the flowers in the mead that are blowing, But the tainted in spirit may never be there. p. 5 Now, O Divinest, eternally fair, Take thou this garland to gather thy hair, Brought by a hand that is pure as the air. For I alone of all the sons of men Hear thy pure accents, answering thee again. And may I reach the goal of life as I began the race, Blest by the music of thy voice, though darkness ever veil thy face! p. 6ON A CRUSHED HAT p. 6
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