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Smoking Poems

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

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

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

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

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

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

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

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

To The Rev. Mr. Newton.
Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand ...

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

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

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

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

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



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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