Classic Poem

Come, good comrades, join me where
The Urn our spirits may repair;
Drink a cup to friends afar
To-night from my old samovar!
Not to-night? Ah, well, the storm
Does make one's own hearth more warm,
And I blame you not for this
Homely, sluggish, fireside bliss.

(So alone my course I took
Crosslots to my inglenook.
Cheer in light and fire I sought
To outweigh the winter thought.
There I brewed such cups of tea
As never so ambrosially
Fed a chamber's air upon
Soothing odors of Ceylon.)

Ha, good bookshelf! though the night
Hath such power old friends to fright,
I 'll have Company to tea
Such as thou canst offer me.
Though the wet wind at my pane
Wail a dirge, 't will be in vain! —
Come, ye unrheumatic crew,
We shall have a merry brew!
Long ago in weather bleak
Learnt I first your charms to seek,
Bent o'er many a mouldy page
Of Cervantes or Le Sage,
In a chair so big I felt
Somewhat like the kingly Celt
Who, they say, in times agone
Had a mountain for a throne.
— Of Le Sage? Ah, nights were those
Poring o'er that relished prose,
Nights were those of wine and honey,
Blithe Gil Blas of Santillane!

Elia, in thy gold and green,
None too often art thou seen
At my table friendliwise
With thy gentle, quizzing eyes.
Come! with Bridget too, dear soul!
You shall talk me sane and whole —
It's a clean-hearthed room, and that'll
Just be suiting Sarah Battle.
There, Vasari! don't you think
That I catch your friendly wink?

I daresay you 've tales in store
For this night and many more:
Botticelli's balanced stone,
Or how Biagio did atone
In a painted hell brought low
For criticising Angelo.

Who comes now? — And shall I ask
Omar with his rose-wreathed flask?
Or, more moral and less vinous,
Aphoristic Antoninus?
Six red volumes — scarce amiss,
Boswell-of- Affleck is this!
But ere I invite thee down
With thy gossip of the Town,
Thy Illustrious Friend with thee,
Talking thunder, guzzling tea,
I'll insure my samovar
Against lightning, hail and war.
(Nay, if he gets stormy I
Merely close the book and smile;
None, in life, could snub so well
The obstreperous Samuel!)

— Songs I hear of Rosaleen,
The winding Erne and sad Cathleen:
'T is the bards at Erin's gates,
Mangan, Allingham and Yeats.
— Addison? Yes, Sir Roger's quite
A pleasant, overdue old Knight
Who shall tell me of the Play
And his Spring Garden Holiday.
Here 's society for him:
Cranford ladies, capped and prim,
Whom the aromatic steam
Must draw down to me 't would seem!

There 's Lavengro o'er the ingle;
From his forge in Mumper's Dingle
He shall taste the drink I brewed
In my firelight solitude.
And, above, immortal Cynic
From whose eyes a ray actinic
Dries, e'en as it falls, the briny
Teardrop, thou shalt sing, O Heine!
And thy neighbour, clad in red
With a gilt crown on his head?
Ah, De Quincey! He must come,
Drink, and muse on opium.

Sweet, sweet days beneath the dim
Worcester oaks I 've dwelt with him:
Up and down in Oxford Street
I've saddened for his weary feet;
Mornings have I softly gone
In St. Cuthbert's holy lawn
Where, 't is marked, De Quincey stays
Through these shifting nights and days.
. . . . . .
Tea alone? — O good old Shelf
Not while thou 'rt thine ample self!
Not till some preposterous day
When thy tenants turn away
To some Second-hander hoary
Who keeps Twelvemo Purgatory!
And by then, all things that are,
Rose-in-vase and samovar.
Friendship, fire, and fragrant tea,
Shall have had their hour with me.