Though for me no altar burns,
Kettles boil and bubble—urns
In each fane, where I adore—
What should mortal ask for more!
I for Pidding, Bacchus fly,
Howqua shall my cup supply;
I’ll ne’er ask for amphoræ,
Whilst my tea-pot yields me tea.
Then, perchance, above my grave,
Blooming Hyson sprigs may wave;