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To my Pipe.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

O, BROWNED in many a sunny clime,

And scathed in many a strange mishap,

Still soft ascends thy circling smoke

Before my after-dinner nap.

Each puff recalls a fleeting joy

That passed, like it, in smoke away,

And left, like thee, about my heart

But ashes of the blissful day.

Each spark recalls a glistening eye

That dimmed, like it, with Time's swift flight;

A falling star that sped, like thee,

Through dreary shadows of the night.

Thou little world of fire and smoke,

And ashes of the happy past;

Perish all other friends besides

Save thou, my dearest and my last!

Z.

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