'Midst the rich trappings and the gay attire
Of state luxuriant, and are fond to press
The waving canopy's depending folds;
While others, destined to an humbler fate,
Seek shelter from the dwellings of the poor,
Plying their nightly suction in the bed
Of toil'd mechanic, who, with folded arms,
Enjoys the comforts of a sleep so sound,
That not th' alarming sting of glutting bug
To murd'rous deed can rouse his brawny arm
Upon the blood-swoln fiend, who basely steals
Life's genial current from his throbbing veins.
Happy were Grandeur, could she triumph here, And banish from her halls each misery,
Which she must brook in common with the poor,
Who beg subsistence from her sparing hands;
Then might the rich, to fell disease unknown,
Indulge in fond excess, nor ever feel
The slowly creeping hours of restless night,
When shook with guilty horrors. But the wind,
Whose fretful gusts of anger shake the world,
Bears more destructive on th' aspiring roofs
Of dome and palace, than on cottage low,
That meets olus with his gentler breath,
When safely shelter'd in the peaceful vale.
Is there a being breathes, howe'er so vile,
Too pitiful for Envy? She, with venom'd tooth
And grinning madness, frowns upon the bliss
Of every species; from the human form
That spurns the earth, and bends his mental eye
Through the profundity of space unknown,
Down to the crawling bug's detested race.
Thus the lover pines, that reptile rude
Should 'midst the lilies of fair Chloe's breast
Implant the deep carnation, and enjoy
Those sweets which angel modesty hath hid
From eyes profane. Yet murmur not, ye few
Who gladly would be bugs for Chloe's sake!
For soon, alas! the fluctuating gales
Of earthly joy invert the happy scene.
The breath of spring may, with her balmy power,
And warmth diffusive, give to Nature's face
Her brightest colours; but how short the space!
Till angry Eurus, from his petrid cave,
Deform the year, and all these sweets annoy.
Ev'n so befalls it to this creeping race,
This envy'd commonwealth. For they a while
On Chloe's bosom, alabaster fair,
May steal ambrosial bliss—or may regale
On the rich viands of luxurious blood,
Delighted and sufficed. But mark the end:
Lo! Whitsuntide appears with gloomy train
Of growing desolation. First upholsterer rude
Removes the waving drapery, where, for years,
A thriving colony of old and young
Had hid their numbers from the prying day;
Anon they fall, and gladly would retire
To safer ambush, but his merciless foot,
Ah, cruel pressure! cracks their vital springs,
And with their deep-dyed scarlet smears the floor.
Sweet powers! has pity in the female breast
No tender residence, no loved abode,
To urge
from murderous deed th' avenging hand
Of angry housemaid? She'll have blood for blood!
For lo the boiling streams from copper tube,
Hot as her rage, sweep myriads to death.
Their carcases are destined to the urn
Of some chaste Naiad, that gives birth to floods,
Whose fragrant virtues hail Edina, famed
For yellow limpid-whose chaste name the Muse
Thinks too exalted to retail in song.
Ah me! No longer they at midnight shade,
With baneful sting, shall seek the downy couch
Of slumbering mortals. Nor shall love-sick swain,
When, by the bubbling brook, in fairy dream,
His nymph, but half reluctant to his wish,
Is gently folded in his eager arms,
E'er curse the shaft envenom'd, that disturbs
His long-loved fancies. Nor shall hungry hard,
Whose strong imagination, whetted keen,
Conveys him to the feast, be tantalized
With poisonous tortures, when the cup, brimful
Of purple vintage, gives him greater joy
Than all the Heliconian streams that play
And murmur round Parnassus. Now the wretch,
Oft doom'd to restless days and sleepless nights,
By bugbear conscience thrall'd, enjoys an hour
Of undisturb'd repose. The miser, too,
May brook his golden dreams, nor wake with fear
That thieves or kindred (for no soul he'll trust)
Have broke upon his chest, and strive to steal
The shining idols of his useless hours.
Happy the bug, whose unambitious views To gilded pomp ne'er tempt him to aspire! Safely may he, enwrapt in russet fold Of cobweb'd curtain, set at bay the fears That still attendant are on bugs of state. He never knows at morn the busy brush Of scrubbing chambermaid. His coursing blood Is ne'er obstructed with obnoxious dose By Oliphant prepar'd; too pois'nous drug! As deadly fatal to this crawling tribe
As ball and powder to the sons of war.
YE maidens modest! on whose sullen brows
Hath weaning chastity her wrinkles cull'd,
Who constant labour o'er consumptive oil
At midnight knell, to wash sleep's nightly balm
From closing eye-lids, with the grateful drops
Of Tea's blest juices-list the obsequious lays
That come not with Parnassian honours crown'd
To dwell in murmurs o'er your sleepy sense,
But fresh from Orient blown to chase far off
Your lethargy, that dormant needles roused
May pierce the waving mantua's silken folds:
For many a dame, in chamber sadly pent,
Hath this reviving limpid call'd to life;
And well it did, to mitigate the frowns
Of anger reddening on Lucinda's brow
With flash malignant, that had harbour'd there,
If she at masquerade, or play, or ball,
Appear'd not in her newest, best attire.
But Venus, goddess of th' eternal smile,
Knowing that stormy brows but ill become
Fair patterns of her beauty, hath ordain'd
Celestial Tea-a fountain that can cure
The ills of passion, and can free the fair
From frowns and sighs from disappointment earn'd.
To her, ye fair, in adoration bow!
Whether at blushing morn, or dewy eve;
1 This leaf was first imported into Europe by the Dutch East India Company, in the early part of the 17th century; but it was not until the year 1666 that a small quantity was brought over from Holland to this country by Lords Arlington and Ossory; and yet, from a period much earlier than any to which the memories of the existing generation, extend tea has been one of the ordinary necessaries of life among all classes of the community. We feel, with all our patriotism, we could hardly return to the "Sage" and " Wild thyme" recommended by the poet.
Her smoking cordials greet your fragrant board,
With Sushong, Congo, or coarse Bohea crown'd.
At midnight skies, ye mantua-makers, hail
The sacred offering: for the haughty belles
No longer can upbraid your lingering hands
With trains upborne aloft by dusty gales
That sweep the ball-room. Swift they glide along,
And, with their sailing streamers, catch the eye
Of some Adonis, mark'd to love a prey,
Whose bosom ne'er had panted with a sigh,
But for the silken draperies that enclose
Graces which nature has by art conceal'd.
Mark well the fair! observe their modest eye,
With all the innocence of beauty blest.
Could slander o'er that tongue its power retain
Whose breath is music? Ah, fallacious thought!
The surface is ambrosia's mingled sweets;
But all below is death. At tea-board met,
Attend their prattling tongues; they scoff, they rail
Unbounded; but their darts are chiefly aim'd
At some gay fair whose beauties far eclipse
Her dim beholders, who, with haggard eyes,
Would blight those charms where raptures long have
In ecstacy delighted and sufficed.
In vain hath Beauty, with her varied robe,
Bestow'd her glowing blushes o'er her cheeks,
And call'd attendant graces to her aid,
To blend the scarlet and the lily fair.
In vain did Venus in her fav'rite mould
Adapt the slender form to Cupid's choice;
When Slander comes, her blasts too fatal prove;
Pale are those cheeks where youth and beauty glow'd, Where smiles, where freshness, and where roses grew : Ghastly and wan their Gorgon picture comes
|