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Smoking Poems

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

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

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

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

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

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

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

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

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

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

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

Knickerbocker.
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knic...

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

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

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

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

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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