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Smoking Poems

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

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

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

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

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...



EFFUSION BY A CIGAR SMOKER.








Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire,
Your fame to raise,
Upon its blaze,
Alas! ye do but light your funeral pyre!
Tempting Fate's stroke;
Ye fall, and all your glory ends in smoke.
Safe in my chair from wounds and woe,
_My_ fire and smoke from mine own mouth I blow.

Ye booksellers! who deal, like me, in puffs,
The public smokes,
You and your hoax,
And turns your empty vapor to rebuffs.
Ye through the nose
Pay for each puff; when mine the same way flows,
It does not run me into debt;
And thus, the more I fume, the less I fret.

Authors! created to be puff'd to death,
And fill the mouth
Of some uncouth
Bookselling wight, who sucks your brains and breath,
Your leaves thus far
(Without its fire) resemble my cigar;
But vapid, uninspired, and flat:
When, when, O Bards, will ye _compose_ like _that_?

Since life and the anxieties that share
Our hopes and trust,
Are smoke and dust,
Give me the smoke and dust that banish care.
The roll'd leaf bring,
Which from its ashes, Phoenix-like, can spring;
The fragrant leaf whose magic balm
Can, like Nepenthe, all our sufferings charm.

Oh, what supreme beatitude is this!
What soft and sweet
Sensations greet
My soul, and wrap it in Elysian bliss!
I soar above
Dull earth in these ambrosial clouds, like Jove,
And from my empyrean height
Look down upon the world with calm delight.

HORACE SMITH.





Next: A POT, AND A PIPE OF TOBACCO.

Previous: CIGARS AND BEER.



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