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Smoking Poems

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

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

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

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

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

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

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

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

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

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

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

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,...

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

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



MY AFTER-DINNER CLOUD.








Some sombre evening, when I sit
And feed in solitude at home,
Perchance an ultra-bilious fit
Paints all the world an orange chrome.

When Fear and Care and grim Despair
Flock round me in a ghostly crowd,
One charm dispels them all in air,--
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

'Tis melancholy to devour
The gentle chop in loneliness.
I look on six--my prandial hour--
With dread not easy to express.

And yet for every penance done,
Due compensation seems allow'd.
My penance o'er, its price is won,--
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

My clay is _not_ a Henry Clay,--
I like it better on the whole;
And when I fill it, I can say,
I drown my sorrows in the bowl.

For most I love my lowly pipe
When weary, sad, and leaden-brow'd;
At such a time behold me ripe
To blow my after-dinner cloud.

As gracefully the smoke ascends
In columns from the weed beneath,
My friendly wizard, Fancy, lends
A vivid shape to every wreath.

Strange memories of life or death
Up from the cradle to the shroud,
Come forth as, with enchanter's breath,
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

What wonder if it stills my care
To quit the present for the past,
And summon back the things that were,
Which only thus in vapor last?

What wonder if I envy not
The rich, the giddy, and the proud,
Contented in this quiet spot
To blow my after-dinner cloud?

HENRY S. LEIGH.





Next: THE HAPPY SMOKING-GROUND.

Previous: LATAKIA.



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