And not only have some of the "canonized bards" of
England celebrated its honors,--like Pope, in the "Rape of the Lock,"
when describing Hampton Court,--
"There, thou great Anna, whom three realms obey,
Dost sometimes counsel take, and sometimes _tea_,"--
but, if it be true that
"Many are poets who have never penned
Their inspiration,"
how many an unknown bard have we among us, who, at the close of a hard
day's work, tramps cheerily home, whistling,--
"Molly, put the kettle on,
We'll all have tea,"--
and thinking of a well-spread board, a simmering urn, a sweet wife, and
rosy-cheeked children, waiting his coming. Grave father of a family!
Your heart has grown cold and hard, if you have ceased to enjoy such
scenes. Young husband! cannot you remember the first time you hoped with
good reason, when, as you took leave after an afternoon call, a pair of
witching eyes looked into yours, and a sweet voice sounded sweeter, as
it timidly asked, "Won't you stay--_and take a cup of tea_?"
THE OLD BURYING-GROUND.
Our vales are sweet with fern and rose,
Our hills are maple-crowned;
But not from them our fathers chose
The village burying-ground.
The dreariest spot in all the land
To Death they set apart;
With scanty grace from Nature's hand,
And none from that of Art.
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