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Smoking Poems

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

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

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

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

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

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

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

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

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

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

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

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

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

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

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

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

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

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



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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