Yes, social friend, I love thee well,
In learned doctor's spite;
I love thy fragrant, misty spell,
I love thy calm delight.
What if they tell , with phizzes long,
Our years are sooner past?
I would reply, with reason strong,
They're sweeter while they last.
And oft, mild tube, to me thou art,
A monitor, though still;
Thou speak'st a lesson to my heart,
Beyond the preacher's skill.
When, in the lonely evening hour,
Attended but by thee,
O'er hist'ry's varied page I pore,
Man's fate in thee I see.
Awhile like thee the hero burns,
And smokes and fumes around,
And then like thee to ashes turns,
And mingles with the ground.
Throu't like the man of worth, who gives
To goodness every day,
The fragrance of whose virtues lives,
When he has passed away.
Oh when thy snowy column grows,
And breaks and fails away,
I trace how mighty realms thus rise,
Then tumbled to decay.
From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe,
One common doom is pass'd:
Sweet nature's works, the mighty globe,,
Must all burn out at last.
And what is he who smokes thee now?
A little moving heap:
That's soon, like thee, to fate must bow,
Like thee in dust must sleep.
And when I see thy smoke roll high,
Thy ashes downward go,
Methinks 'tis thus my soul shall fly,
Thus leave my body too.
A huge Cigar are all mankind,
And time's the wasting breath,
That, late or early, we shall find,
Gives all to dusty death.