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Smoking Poems

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

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

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

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

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

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

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

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

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...



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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