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Smoking Poems

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

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

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

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

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

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

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

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

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



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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