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Smoking Poems

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

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

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

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

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

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

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

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

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

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

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

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

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



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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