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Smoking Poems

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

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

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

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

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

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

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

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

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

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

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

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

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

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

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

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...



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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