These godly women (before mentioned) were both of Ipswich, and suffered about the same time with Cranmer. When in prison together, Mrs. Trunchfield was less ardent and zealous than Mrs. Potten; but when at the stake, her hope in glory was brigh... Read more of Agnes Potten And Joan Trunchfield at Martyrs.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

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

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

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

Tobacco.
Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...

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

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

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

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

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...



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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