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Smoking Poems

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

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

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

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

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

A Loss.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love an...

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

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

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

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

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

To The Rev. Mr. Newton.
Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand ...

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

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



TO THE TOBACCO PIPE.








Dear piece of fascinating clay!
'Tis thine to smooth life's rugged way,
To give a happiness unknown
To those--who let a pipe alone;
Thy tube can best the vapors chase,
By raising--others in their place;
Can give the face staid Wisdom's air,
And teach the lips--to ope with care;
'Tis hence thou art the truest friend
(Where least is said there's least to mend),
And he who ventures many a joke
Had better oft be still and smoke.

Whatever giddy foplings think,
Thou giv'st the highest zest to drink.
When fragrant clouds thy fumes exhale,
And hover round the nut-brown ale,
Who thinks of claret or champagne?
E'en burgundy were pour'd in vain.

'Tis not in city smoke alone,
Midst fogs and glooms thy charms are known.
With thee, at morn, the rustic swain
Tracks o'er the snow-besprinkled plain,
To seek some neighb'ring copse's side,
And rob the woodlands of their pride:
With thee, companion of his toil,
His active spirits ne'er recoil;
Though hard his daily task assign'd,
He bears it with an equal mind.

The fisher 'board some little bark,
When all around is drear and dark,
With shortened pipe beguiles the hour,
Though bleak the wind and cold the show'r,
Nor thinks the morn's approach too slow,
Regardless of what tempests blow.
Midst hills of sand, midst ditches, dikes,
Midst cannons, muskets, halberts, pikes;
With thee, as still, Mynheer can stay,
As Neddy 'twixt two wisps of hay;
Heedless of Britain and of France,
Smokes on--and looks to the main chance.

And sure the solace thou canst give
Must make thy fame unrivalled live,
So long as men can temper clay
(For as thou art, e'en so are they),
The sun mature the Indian weed,
And rolling years fresh sorrows breed.

From _The Meteors_, London.





Next: THE PATRIOTIC SMOKER'S LAMENT.

Previous: ON A TOBACCO JAR.



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