O Blessed pipe,

That now I clutch within my gripe,

What joy is in thy smooth, round bowl,

As black as coal!

So sweetly wed

To thy blanched, gradual thread,

Like Desdemona to the Moor,

Thou pleasure's core.

What woman's lip

Could ever give, like thy red tip,

Such unremitting store of bliss,

Or such a kiss?

Oh, let me toy,

Ixion-like, with cloudy joy;

Thy stem with a most gentle slant

I eye askant!

Unseen, unheard,

Thy dreamy nectar is transferred,

The while serenity astride

Thy neck doth ride.

A burly cloud

Doth now thy outward beauties shroud:

And now a film doth upward creep,

Cuddling the cheek.

And now a ring,

A mimic silver quoit, takes wing;

Another and another mount on high,

Then spread and die.

They say in story

That good men have a crown of glory;

O beautiful and good, behold

The crowns unfold!

How did they live?

What pleasure could the Old World give

That ancient miserable lot

When thou wert not?

Oh, woe betide!

My oldest, dearest friend hath died,--

Died in my hand quite unaware,

Oh, Baccy rare!