BREAKFAST
XXVIII
A dinner party, coffee, tea,
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
In their way pleasant. But to me
Not one of these deserves the praise
That welcomer of new-born days,
A breakfast, merits; ever giving
Cheerful notice we are living
Another day refresh’d by sleep,
When its festival we keep.
Now, although I would not slight
Those kindly words we use, “Good-night,”
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
And may not vie with sweet “Good-morrow,”
With which again our friends we greet
When in the breakfast-room we meet,
At the social table round,
Listening to the lively sound
Of those notes which never tire
Of urn or kettle on the fire.
Sleepy Robert never hears
Or urn or kettle; he appears
When all have finish’d, one by one
Dropping off, and breakfast done.
Yet has he too his own pleasure,
His breakfast hour’s his hour of leisure;
And, left alone, he reads or muses,
Or else in idle mood he uses
To sit and watch the venturous fly,
Where the sugar’s piled high,
Clambering o’er the lumps so white,
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.
THE
COFFEE SLIPS
XXIX
Whene’er I fragrant coffee drink
I on the generous Frenchman think,
Whose noble perseverance bore
The tree to Martinico’s shore.
While yet her colony was new,
Her island products but a few,
Two shoots from off a coffee-tree
He carried with him o’er the sea.
Each little tender coffee-slip
He waters daily in the ship;
And as he tends his embryo trees
Feels he is raising ’midst the seas
Coffee groves, whose ample shade
Shall screen the dark Creolian maid.
But soon, alas! his darling pleasure
In watching this his precious treasure,
Is like to fade; for water fails
On board the ship in which he sails.
Now all the reservoirs are shut,
The crew on short allowance put;
So small a drop is each man’s share
Few leavings you may think there are
To water these poor coffee plants!
But he supplies their gasping wants;
Ev’n from his own dry parched lips
He spares it for his coffee-slips.
Water he gives his nurslings first
Ere he allays his own deep thirst;
Lest if he first the water sip
He bear too far his eager lip.
He sees them droop for want of more;
Yet when they reach the destined shore,
With pride the heroic gardener sees
A living sap still in his trees.
The islanders his praise resound!
Coffee plantations rise around;
And Martinico loads her ships
With produce from those dear-saved slips.[B]
[B] The name of this man was Desclieux, and the story is to be found in the Abbé Raynal’s History of the Settlements and Trade of the Europeans in the East and West Indies.
WRITTEN IN THE
FIRST LEAF OF A
CHILD’S
MEMORANDUM BOOK
XXX
My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see,
They seem for any use to be unfit for me:
My writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind,
Within this narrow space can hardly be confined.
Yet I will strive to make my hand less awkward look;
I would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book!
The finest pens I’ll use, and wondrous pains I’ll take,
And I these perfect lines my monitors will make.
And every day I will set down in order due
How that day wasted is; and should there be a few
At the year’s end that show more goodly to the sight,
If haply here I find some days not wasted quite,
If a small portion of them I have pass’d aright,
Then shall I think the year not wholly was misspent,
And that my Diary has been by some good angel sent.
