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Smoking Poems

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...



EDIFYING REFLECTIONS OF A TOBACCO-SMOKER.








_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANSLATED BY
EDWARD BRECK._



As oft I fill my faithful pipe,
To while away the moments glad,
With fragrant leaves, so rich and ripe,
My mind perceives an image sad,
So that I can but clearly see
How very like it is to me.

My pipe is made of earth and clay,
From which my mortal part is wrought;
I, too, must turn to earth some day.
It often falls, as quick as thought,
And breaks in two,--puts out its flame;
My fate, alas! is but the same!

My pipe I color not, nor paint;
White it remains, and hence 'tis true
That, when in Death's cold arms I faint,
My lips shall wear the ashen hue;
And as it blackens day by day,
So black the grave shall turn my clay!

And when the pipe is put alight
The smoke ascends, then trembles, wanes,
And soon dissolves in sunshine bright,
And but the whitened ash remains.
'Tis so man's glory crumble must,
E'en as his body, into dust!

How oft the filler is mislaid;
And, rather than to seek in vain,
I use my finger in its stead,
And fancy as I feel the pain,
If coals can burn to such degree,
How hot, O Lord, must Hades be!

So in tobacco oft I find,
Lessons of such instructive type;
And hence with calm, contented mind
I live, and smoke my faithful pipe
In reverence where'er I roam,--
On land, on water, and at home.





Next: THE LOST LOTUS.

Previous: INGIN SUMMER.



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