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Smoking Poems

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

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

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

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

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

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

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

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

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

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

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

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

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

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

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

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

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

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

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

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



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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