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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

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

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

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

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

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

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

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

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

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

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

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

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...



SMOKE AND CHESS.








We were sitting at chess as the sun went down;
And he, from his meerschaum's glossy brown,
With a ring of smoke made his king a crown.

The cherry stem, with its amber tip,
Thoughtfully rested on his lip,
As the goblet's rim from which heroes sip.

And, looking out through the early green,
He called on his patron saint, I ween,--
That misty maiden, Saint Nicotine,--

While ever rested that crown so fair,
Poised in the warm and pulseless air,
On the carven chessman's ivory hair.

Dreamily wandered the game along,
Quietly moving at even-song,
While the striving kings stood firm and strong,

Until that one which of late was crowned
Flinched from a knight's determined bound,
And in sullen majesty left the ground,

Reeling back; and it came to pass
That, waiting to mutter no funeral mass,
A bishop had dealt him the _coup de grace_.

And so, as we sat, we reasoned still
Of fate and of fortune, of human will,
And what are the purposes men fulfil.

For we see at last, when the truth arrives,
The moves on the chess-board of our lives,--
That fields may be lost, though the king survives.

Not always he whom the world reveres
Merits its honor or wins its cheers,
Standing the best at the end of the years.

Not always he who has lost the fight
Rises again with the coming light,
Battles anew for his ancient right.

SAMUEL W. DUFFIELD.





Next: INSCRIPTION FOR A TOBACCO JAR.

Previous: SONG OF THE SMOKE-WREATHS.



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