The Tea-Table. ’Tis there all meet, The downright clown, and perfectly wellbred. Blair’s Grave. Through all unknown to Greek and Roman song The paler Hyson, and the dark Souchong ; Though Black nor Green the warbled praises share Of knightly Troubadour, or gay Trouvér, Yet scorn not thou, as alien quite to numbers, That friend to prattle, and that foe to slumbers, Which Kien Long, imperial poet, praised So high, that cent per cent its price was raised ; Which Pope himself would sometimes condescend To place, commodious, at a couplet’s end ; Which the sweet bard of Olney did not spurn, Who sung the music of the “ hissing urn :” Let her, who bade me write, enact the Muse, Inspire my genius, and my Tea infuse : So shall my verse the hovering Sylphs delight, And critic Gnomes relinquish half their spite. Clear, warm, and flowing as my liquid theme, As sweet as sugar, and as soft as cream. May it awhile engage the gentle fair, Then gambol gaily in the morning air, Twined in the tendrils of her nut-brown hair ! Who has not read in chronicle or fable, Of good King Arthur and his famous Table, Where Kay and Tristrem talk’d by fits and starts Of love and murder, broken heads and hearts ? Like this the modern talk at time of tea, Of the Round Table and its chivalry, Who speak, with even voice and equal zest, Of hearts ensnared, and heads absurdly drest. Tis true, a softer race the board environ, Who corslets wear indeed, but not of iron ; Who play—but seldom combat by the card, And drink—but drink not through the helmet barr’d, The fair alone with Chalybean proof, Support their busts, their lovers keep aloof, The Muse is female, and may dare reveal What I have heard, and some, perhaps, may feel. King Arthur kept his court in Camelot, But the Round Table graces every cot. Palace and farm enjoy the gentle feast That blends the products of the West and East. Where’er, on British ground, our footsteps roam, We find it still, and find it too at home. Whether till eight the formal guests delay, Or meet at seven in a friendly way : Sooner or later, still the board is crown’d— The lacquer’d tray and argent spoons resound— The homely delft, or far-sought porcelain, In circling ranks are marshall’d on the plain. The polish’d chest with curious art inlaid, Or quaintly wrought by some ingenious maid, Displays the lawful spoils of venturous trade. But not alike in a place and time, The social banquet that provokes my rhyme ; Not social there, where law or logic lours, At inns of court, or academic bowers : In silence sip the solitary tribes Of lank-jaw’d students, and of sallow scribes. Pot after pot is drain’d, yet not a word From lady’s lip in those confines is heard : Nought save the knell of “ midnight’s dreary noon,” And the dull jingle of the circling spoon. Hie we from thence, nor shall we long delay About the homely meal of every day : For the dear comforts of domestic tea Are sung too well to stand in need of me, By Cowper and the bard of Rimini. Besides, I hold it for a species grace That such a theme is rather common-place. The joyous blazing of the new-stirr’d fire, The mother’s summons to the dozing sire ; The whispers audible, that oft intrude On the forced silence of the younger brood ; The blooming daughter’s ever-ready smile, So full of meaning, and so void of guile ; With all the little, mighty things that cheer The closing day from quiet year to year, I leave to those whom more benignant fate Or merit destines to the wedded state. A stranger I, a wanderer upon earth, A thriftless prodigal of tears and mirth, Must learn, without a cherish’d hope, to see The loving looks that look not love to me ; Happy, if time at length shall teach me this, To find my proper joy in others’ bliss : But ne’er be mine the selfish heart forlorn, The tear of envy, or the laugh of scorn. I grow too grave, and must in haste return To the frail China, and resplendent Urn. Behold the table spread, the lady set ; Matrons and spinsters, all are duly met ; The younger belles disposed in seatter’d troops, In rows demure, or gaily whispering groups ; The female elders chat the time away, (I often wonder what they find to say,) Or sort the pearly fish in painted pools, (Their light exchequers,) while their coffee cools. What various tones from female organs flow, How briskly smooth, or languishingly slow ; The pretty creatures laugh, and weep, and rail, In all gradations of the vocal scale, From fell Xantippe’s emphasis of brass To the soft murmur of the melting lass ; The smoking board sets all their tongues in motion, Like many billows of the voiceful ocean ; From note to note the keen remark descends, In squalls begins, and in a whisper ends. For loud and shrill the bulky bourgeoise Accosts the beauty of departed days— With accents tuned with unavailing skill, The Vestal answers to the Matron shrill ; With temper’d melody of cautious speech The Hostess doubts, and yet accords with each : Then round and round the breezy murmurs glide, And every absent Miss is named a Bride. Yon rosy lassy, just arrived from school, Where all must look, and think, and feel by rule, Uneasy novice of an order strict, That on her tongue has laid an interdict, With her small hands the weighty secret spells, And weaves her fingers into syllables. Of things like these my infant mind took note Ere yet my limbs had felt the strait culotte : Ill could I else by human wit divine What Ladies do, when Gents are at their wine. At length the summons of the simpering Maid, Or bold-faced footman, tardily obey’d, Calls Lords, and Knights, and Squires, and Priests, and Bards, From White and Red to Coffee, Tea, and Cards. When the rude North comes roaring up the vale, To silence sinks the lily-bending gale : So sinks the converse of the soft-robed clan At the hard step of heavy-tramping man. Lost is the tale, adjourn’d the cutting jest, The secret kept, the sly charade unguess’d. With many a smother’d laugh, and many a flush, The buzzing watch-word passes—hush—hush—hush— ’Tis but the Parson—perhaps it is but I— Then wherefore, Ladies, all this mystery ? The Parson, sure, cannot excite your fears, And I, you know, have neither eyes nor ears— Then let the tale, the jest, the laugh revive, As if there were not such a quiz alive. Oh ! let me hear your sweetness ; and I’m stunn’d With thine, Ricardo, and the Sinking Fund. As when victorious troops, to pillage bound, In scatter’d bands, obey the bugle’s sound, So, one by one, the jovial swains repair To the soft standard of the muster’d fair. First, the prim Dangler, complaisant and sleek, With frill that flutters, and with shoes that creak, Tells all the news to every aged she, And points each slander with a low congee ; Pays for each morsel that the Lady gives With parasitical superlatives : Whate’er he tastes—’tis excellent—divine— Above the Coffee—as below the Wine. Next comes a thing, I know not how to name, Of doubtful sex, which neither sex will claim— So rank with Bergamot and Attargul, That every nose will wind him for a fool— A thing so fine, so exquisitely nice, It has no gout for virtue, no—nor vice. Its waspish waist, elaborately thin, Its heartless leer, and apathetic grin— That arching eyebrow of inane pretence, That eye of unimpassion’d impudence — Are these permitted at a lady’s side ? Forbid it, Modesty, and Maiden pride. Shall he your soft embosom’d thoughts engage That joins the negatives of youth and age ? Boyish in brain, in heart as weak and cold As a French Courtier fifty winters old. Yet oft the feeling heart, the thinking brain, Attempt to ape him, but attempt in vain : For, let kind. Nature do the best she can, ’Tis Woman still that makes or mars the Man. And so it is—the creature can beguile The fairest faces of the readiest smile. The next that comes the Hyson to inhale, If not a Man, at least we own a Male ; His worst offences are against your ears, For, though he laughs too loud, he seldom sneers. He knows the Coachman’s craft, the Hunter’s hollo, The Fancy phrase, that might confound Apollo. Right well he loves, in Row, or Lark, or Spree, To “ sound the base string of humility.” His rural friends are Nimrod’s genuine seed, The best among them are his Dog and Steed. His town acquaintance, form’d on midnight bulks, Adorn the Nubbing Cheat, or man the Hulks. With iron grasp—with face and voice of Brass, He shouts loud greeting to each bonny lass.— Then bolts his tea—and straight begins a story Of Hunter’s perils, or of Bruiser’s glory. Talks in an unknown tongue of Max and Milling, And doubtless fancies he is mighty killing. Now up the stairs, disputing all the way, Two keen logicians urge their wordy fray : Abrupt they enter, voluble and loud, But soon remember that they have not bow’d ; That error mended, both at once relate To some fair Maid the subject of debate : To her kind judgment both at once refer— For each expects a judgment kind from her. But she, too meek, too witty, and too wise, To judge between the vassals of her eyes, To each Polemic seeming to incline— Allots to each the happy chance—to shine. Through four full cups their nice distinctions run, And all suppose them just where they begun : Till a gruff senior, and his as nose, Arrive to part the Dialectic Foes. “ Young Men,” says he, “ be sure you both are wrong, And all your Theories are not worth a song : The point is one that elder heads has puzzled ; Presumptuous boys like you should all be muzzled.” Then to the maid he turns his solemn pace, And gravely tells her he has judged the case. But now the lingering votaries of port Make to the fair—their long-delay’d resort. What bulky forms around the table press ! D. D. and LL. D. and A. S. S. The china rings—the urn is nigh o’erset, By such a Bacchanalian Alphabet. With glowing faces, and with watery eyes, They pass about their pursy gallantries. What beauties they in every dame behold— Inspired adorers of the plain and old : If men were still so happy and so blind, Could men or women call their fate unkind ? They not remark the glance—the laugh supprest— In the pert virgin’s newly-budded breast ; Nor see their wives’ contracted brow severe, Their daughter’s blush, that moves the Dandy’s sneer ; Nay, scarce young Nimrod’s merry roar can hear. Hark—like the rumble of a coming storm, Without we hear the dreadful word, Reform— Last of the rout, and dogg’d with public cares, The politician stumbles up the stairs ; Whose dusky soul not beauty can illume, Nor wine dispel his patriotic gloom. From guest to guest in turbid ire he goes, And ranks us all among our country’s foes. Says ’tis a shame that we should take our tea Till wrongs are righted, and the nation free ; That priests and poets are a venal race, Who preach for patronage, and rhyme for place ; That boys and girls are crazy to be cooing, When England’s a is bankruptey and ruin ; That wiser ’twere the coming wrath to fly, And that old women should make haste to die. As froward infants cry themselves to sleep, If unregarded they are left to weep, So patriot zeal, if unopposed, destroys Its strength with fervour, and its breath with noise. Allow’d resistless as the Son of Ammon, Behold the great Reformer at Backgammon : Debt, taxes, boroughs, and decline of price, Forgotten all, he only damns the dice. But pause—the urn that sweetly sung before, Like a crack’d lute, is vocal now no more ; Dry as the footsteps of the ebbing sea, Effete and flaccid lie the leaves of tea. And I, who always keep the golden mean, Have just declined a seventh cup of green. The noise, the tumult of that hour is flown ; Lost in quadrille, whist, commerce, or Pope Joan, With eager haste my theme is clear’d away ; And, Tea concluded, shall conclude my lay.