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Smoking Poems

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

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

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

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

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

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

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

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

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

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

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

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

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

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

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



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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