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Smoking Poems

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

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

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

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

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

To The Rev. Mr. Newton.
Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand ...

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...



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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