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Smoking Poems

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

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

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

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

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

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

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

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

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

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

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

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

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

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

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

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

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

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



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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