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Smoking Poems

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

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

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

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

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

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

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

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

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

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

A Loss.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love an...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Envoi.
Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...



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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