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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

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

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

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

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

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

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

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

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

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

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

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

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

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

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



THE LAST PIPE.








When head is sick and brain doth swim,
And heavy hangs each unstrung limb,
'Tis sweet through smoke-puffs, wreathing slow,
To watch the firelight flash or glow.
As each soft cloud floats up on high,
Some worry takes its wings to fly;
And Fancy dances with the flame,
Who lay so labor-crammed and lame;
While the spent Will, the slack Desire,
Re-kindle at the dying fire,
And burn to meet the morrow's sun
With all its day's work to be done.

The tedious tangle of the Law,
Your work ne'er done without some flaw;
Those ghastly streets that drive one mad,
With children joyless, elders sad,
Young men unmanly, girls going by
Bold-voiced, with eyes unmaidenly;
Christ dead two thousand years agone,
And kingdom come still all unwon;
Your own slack self that will not rise
Whole-hearted for the great emprise,--
Well, all these dark thoughts of the day
As thin smoke's shadow drift away.

And all those magic mists unclose,
And a girl's face amid them grows,--
The very look she's wont to wear,
The wild rose blossoms in her hair,
The wondrous depths of her pure eyes,
The maiden soul that 'neath them lies,
That fears to meet, yet will not fly,
Your stranger spirit drawing nigh.
What if our times seem sliding down?
She lives, creation's flower and crown.
What if your way seems dull and long?
Each tiny triumph over wrong,
Each effort up through sloth and fear,
And she and you are brought more near.
So rapping out these ashes light,--
"My pipe, you've served me well to-night."

_London Spectator_.





Next: ODE TO MY PIPE.

Previous: MOTTO FOR A TOBACCO JAR.



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