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Smoking Poems

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

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

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

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

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

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

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

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

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

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

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

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...



TO MY CIGAR.








Yes, social friend, I love thee well,
In learned doctor's spite;
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,
And lap me in delight.

What though they tell, with phizzes long,
My years are sooner past!
I would reply with reason strong,
They're sweeter while they last.

When in the lonely evening hour,
Attended but by thee,
O'er history's varied page I pore,
Man's fate in thine I see.

Oft as the snowy column grows,
Then breaks and falls away,
I trace how mighty realms thus rose,
Thus tumbled to decay.

Awhile like thee earth's masters burn
And smoke and fume around;
And then, like thee, to ashes turn,
And mingle with the ground.

Life's but a leaf adroitly rolled,
And Time's the wasting breath
That, late or early, we behold
Gives all to dusty death.

From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe,
One common doom is passed;
Sweet Nature's works, the swelling globe,
Must all burn out at last.

And what is he who smokes thee now?
A little moving heap,
That soon, like thee, to fate must bow,
With thee in dust must sleep.

But though thy ashes downward go,
Thy essence rolls on high;
Thus, when my body lieth low,
My soul shall cleave the sky.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.





Next: KNICKERBOCKER.

Previous: THE SCENT OF A GOOD CIGAR.



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