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Smoking Poems

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

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

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

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

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

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

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

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

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



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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