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Smoking Poems

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

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

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

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

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

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

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

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

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

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

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

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

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

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

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

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

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

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...



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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