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As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

Section II.


When the party commences, all starch'd and all glum,

They talk of the weather, their corns, or sit mum: They will tell you of ribbons, of cambric, of lace, How cheap they were sold-and will tell you the


They discourse of their colds, and they hem and they cough,

And complain of their servants to pass the time off.
But TEA, that enlivener of wit and of soul,
More loquacious by far than the draughts of the bowl,
Soon loosens the tongue and enlivens the mind,
And enlightens their eyes to the faults of mankind.
It brings on the tapis their neighbour's defects,
The faults of their friends, or their wilful neglects;
Reminds them of many a good-natur'd tale
About those who are stylish and those who are frail,
Till the sweet temper'd dames are converted by tea,
Into character-manglers-Gunaikophagi.
In harmless chit-chat an acquaintance they roast,
And serve up a friend, as they serve up a toast.
Some gentle faux pas, or some female mistake,
Is like sweetmeats delicious, or relish'd as cake:
A bit of broad scandal is like a dry crust,
It would stick in the throat, so they butter it first
With a little affected good nature, and cry
Nobody regrets the thing deeper than I.

Ah ladies, and was it by Heaven design'd
That ye should be merciful, loving and kind!
Did it form you like angels and send you below,
To prophecy peace-to bid charity flow?


And have you thus left your primeval estate,
And wander so widely-so strangely of late?
Alas! the sad course I too plainly can see,
These evils have all come upon you through Tea.
Cursed weed, that can make your fair spirits resign
The character mild of their mission divine,

That can blot from their bosoms that tenderness true,
Which from female to female forever is due.
Oh how nice is the texture, how fragile the frame
Of that delicate blossom, a female's fair fame!
"Tis the sensitive plant, it recoils from the breath,
And shrinks from the touch as if pregnant with death.
How often, how often, has innocence sigh'd,
Has beauty been reft of its honour, its pride,
Has virtue, though pure as an angel of light,
Been painted as dark as a demon of night;
All offer'd up victims-an auto de fe,
At the gloomy cabals, the dark orgies of tea.
If I, in the remnant that's left me of life,
Am to suffer the torments of slanderous strife,
Let me fall, I implore, in the slang wanger's claw,
Where the evil is open, and subject to law.
Not nibbled and mumbled, and put to the rack,
By the sly undermining of tea party clack :
Condemn me, ye gods, to a newspaper roasting,
But spare me! oh spare me, a tea-table toasting!

Section III.


Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,
One took the other, briskly, by the hand;
Hark-ye, says he, 'tis an odd story this,
About the crows!-I don't know what it is,
Reply'd his friend-No! I'm surpris'd at that;
Where I come from it is the common chat:

But you shall hear; an odd affair indeed!
And that it happen'd, they are all agreed:
Not to detain you from a thing so strange,
A gentleman that lives not far from 'Change,
This week, in short as all the alley knows,
Taking a puke has thrown up three black crows.
Impossible!-Nay, but it's really true;
I have it from good hands, and so may you-
From whose, I pray? so having nam'd the man,
Straight to enquire his curious comrade ran.
Sir, did you tell-relating the affair—
Yes, Sir, I did; and if its worth your care,
Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me;

But, by the bye, 'twas two black crows, not three.-
Resolv'd to trace so wond'rous an event,
Whip, to the third, the virtuoso went.

Sir, and so forth-why yes; the thing is fact,
Though in regard to number not exact;
It was not two black crows, 'twas only one,
The truth of that you may depend upon.
The gentleman himself told me the case-
Where may I find him?-Why, in such a place.
Away goes he, and having found him out,
Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt-
Then to his last informant he referr'd,
And begg'd to know, if true what he had heard:
Did you, Sir, throw up a black crow?-Not I !—
Bless me! how people propagate a lie!

Black crows have been thrown up, three two and one,
And here I find all comes at last to none !
Did you say nothing of a crow at all?
Crow-Crow-perhaps I might, now I recall
The matter over-And pray, Sir, what was't?—
Why, I was horrid sick, and at the last,
I did throw up, and told my neighbour so,
Something that was as black, Sir, as a crow.

Section IV.


In slumbers of midnight, the sailor boy lay;
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;
But watch worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danc'd o'er his mind.

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, And pleasure that waited on life's merry morn. While Memory stood sideways, half cover'd with


And restor'd every rose, but secreted its thorn.

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,

And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy riseNow far, far behind him the green waters glide,

And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall;

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,
And the voices of lov'd ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,
His cheek is impearl'd with a mother's warm tear,
And the lips of the boy in a love kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,

Joy quickens his pulse-all hardships seem o'er, And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest"God thou hast bless'd me-I ask for no more."

Ah! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now 'larums his ear ?

"Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky! "Tis the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere !

He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck,
Amazement confronts him with images dire-
Wild winds and waves drive the vessel a wreck-
The masts fly in splinters-the shrouds are on fire!

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell--
In vain the lost wretch calls on to save ;
Unseen hands of spirits are wringing his knell,
And the Death-Angel flaps his broad wing o'er the



Oh! sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost work of blissWhere now is the picture that fancy touch'd bright, Thy parents' fond pressure, and loves honey'd kiss?

Oh! sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; Unbless'd, and unhonour'd, down deep in the main, Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,

Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge ;. But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet


And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge.

On beds of green sea flower thy limbs shall be laid;
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll-
Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye-

Oh! sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul.



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