Whiter than snow the crystals,
Grown sweet ’neath tropic fires,
More rich the herbs of China’s field,
The pasture-lands more fragrance yield;
For ever let Britannia wield
The tea-pot of her sires!
2—(Tennyson, who took it hot)
I think that I am drawing to an end:
For on a sudden came a gasp for breath.
And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes,