From 1830 to 1850 both Great Britain and the United States, by joint convention, kept on the coast of Africa at least eighty guns afloat for the suppression of the slave trade. Most of the vessels so employed were small corvettes, brigs, ... Read more of THE CAPTURE OF A SLAVER at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

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

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

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

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

Seasonable Sweets.

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

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

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

A Loss.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love an...

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

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....


There may be comrades in this world,
As stanch and true as steel.
There are: and by their friendships firm
Is life made only real.
But, after all, of all these hearts
That close with mine entwine,
None lie so near, nor seem so dear
As this old pipe of mine.

My silent friend--whose voice is held
Fast for my ear alone--
Stays with me always, well content,
With Darby to be Joan.
No fickleness disturbs our lot;
No jars its peace to smother;
Ah, no; my faithful pipe and I
Have wooed and won--each other.

On clouds of curling incense sweet,
We go--my pipe and I--
To lands far off, where skies stay blue
Through all the years that fly.
And nights and days, with rosy dreams
Teems bright--an endless throng
That passing leave, in echoing wake,
Soft murmurings of song.

Does this dream fade? Another comes
To fill its place and more.
In castles silvern roam we now,
They're ours! All! All are ours!
What'er the wreathing rings enfold
Drops shimmering golden showers!

No sordid cost our steps can stay,
We travel free as air.
Our wings are fancies, incense-borne,
That feather-light upbear.
Begone! ye powers of steam and flood.
Thy roads creep far too slow;
We need thee not. My pipe and I
Swifter than Time must go.

Why, what is this? The pipe gone out?
Well, well, the fire's out, too!
The dreams are gone--we're poor once more;
Life's pain begins anew.
'Tis time for sleep, my faithful pipe,
But may thy dreamings be,
Through slumbering hours hued as bright
As those thou gav'st to me!




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