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Smoking Poems

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

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

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

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

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

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

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

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

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

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

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

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

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

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

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

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...



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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