Here, too, _that_ bluff John Bull, whose blood boils high
At such base wares of foreign luxury;
Who scorns to revel in imported cheer,
Who prides in perry, and exults in beer:
On these his surly virtue shall regale,
With quickening cyder, and with fattening ale.
Nor think, ye Fair! our Hornsey has denied
The elegant repasts where you preside:
Here, may the heart rejoice, expanding free
In all the social luxury of Tea!
Whose essence pure inspires such charming chat,
With nods, and winks, and whispers, and _all that_;
Here, then, while 'wrapt inspired, like Horace old,
We chant convivial hymns to Bacchus bold;
Or heave the incense of unconscious sighs,
To catch the grace that beams from beauty's eyes;
Or, in the winding wilds, sequester'd deep,
Th' unwilling Muse invoking, fall asleep;
Or cursing her, and her ungranted smiles,
Chase butterflies along the echoing aisles:
Howe'er employ'd, _here_ be the town forgot,
Where fogs, and smoke, and jostling crowds, _are not_.
TO MARY.
WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.
Oh! is there not in infant smiles
A witching power, a cheering ray,
A charm, that every care beguiles,
And bids the weary soul be gay?
There surely is--for thou hast been,
Child of my heart, my peaceful dove,
Gladdening life's sad and chequer'd scene,
An emblem of the peace above.
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