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Smoking Poems

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

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

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

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

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

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

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

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...



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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