TO MY TEA-KETTLE.

For the Table Book.

For many a verse inspired by tea,
(A never-failing muse to me)
My Kettle, let this tribute flow,
Thy charms to blazon.
And tell thy modest worth, although
Thy face be brazen.

Let others boast the madd’ning bowl,
That raises but to sink the soul,
Thou art the Bacchus that alone
I wish to follow:
From thee I tipple Helicon,
My best Apollo!

’Tis night—my children sleep—no noise
Is heard, except thy cheerful voice;
For when the wind would gain mine ear,
Thou sing’st the faster—
As if thou wert resolv’d to cheer
Thy lonely master.

And so thou dost: those brazen lungs
Vent no deceit, like human tongues:
That honest breath was never known
To turn informer:
And for thy feelings—all must own
That none are warmer.

But late, another eye and ear
Would mark thy form, thy music hear:
Alas! how soon our pleasures fly,
Returning never!
That ear is deaf—that friendly eye
Is clos’d for ever!

Be thou then, now, my friend, my guide,
And humming wisdom by my side,
Teach me so patiently to bear
Hot-water troubles,
That they may end, like thine, in air,
And turn to bubbles.

Let me support misfortune’s fire
Unhurt; and, when I fume with ire.
Whatever friend my passion sees,
And near me lingers,
Let him still handle me with ease.
Nor burn his fingers.

O! may my memory, like thy front.
When I am cold, endure the brunt
Of vitriol envy’s keen assaults,
And shine the brighter,
And ev’ry rub—that makes my faults
Appear the lighter.

Sam Sam’s Son.