Classic Poem

Ye maidens modest! on whose sullen brows
Hath weaning Chastity her wrinkles cull'd,
Who constant labour o'er consumptive oil,
At midnight knell, to wash sleep's nightly balm
From closing eye-lids, with the grateful drops
Of Tea 's blest juices; list th' obsequious lays
That come not with Parnassian honours crown'd,
To dwell in murmurs o'er your sleepy sense,
But fresh from Orient blown to chace far off
Your lethargy, that dormant needles rous'd
May pierce the waving mantua's silken folds:
For many a dame in chamber sadly pent,
Hath this reviving limpid call'd to life;
And well it did, to mitigate the frowns
Of anger reddening on Lucinda's brow
With flash malignant, that had harbour'd there,
If she at masquerade, or play, or ball,
Appear'd not in her newest, best attire.
But Venus, goddess of th' eternal smile,
Knowing that stormy brows but ill become
Fair patterns of her beauty, hath ordain'd
Celestial Tea!—A fountain that can cure.
The ills of passion, and can free the fair
From frowns and sighs, by DisappointmenTearn'd.
To her, ye fair, in adoration bow!
Whether at blushing morn, or dewYeve;
Her smoking cordials greet your fragrant board;
With Suchong, Congo, or coarse Bohea crown'd.
At midnight skies, ye mantua-makers, hail
The sacred offering!—For the haughty belles
No longer upbraid your ling'ring hands
With trains upborn aloft by dusky gales
That sweep the ball-room—swift they glide along,
And, with their sailing streamers, catch the eye
Of some Adonis, mark'd to love a prey.
Whose bosom ne'er had panted with a sigh,
But for the silken drap'ries that inclose
Graces which nature has by Art conceal'd.
Mark well the fair! observe their modest eye,
With all the innocence of beauty blest.
Could Slander o'er that tongue its pow'r retain
Whose breath is music? Ah, fallacious thought!
The surface is Ambrosia's mingl'd sweets;
But all below is death. At tea-board met,
Attend their prattling tongues—they scoff—they rail
Unbounded; but their darts are chiefly aim'd
At some gay fair, whose beauties far eclipse
Her dim beholders—who, with haggard eyes,
Would blight those charms where raptures long have dwelt
In ecstacy, delighted and suffic'd.
In vain hath Beauty, with her varied robe,
Bestow'd her glowing blushes o'er her cheeks,
And call'd attendant Graces to her aid,
To blend the scarlet and the lily fair.
In vain did Venus in her fav'rite mould
Adapt the slender form to Cupid's choice—
When slander comes, her blasts too fatal prove;
Pale are those cheeks where youth and beauty glow'd,
Where smiles, where freshness, and where roses grew:
Ghastly and wan their Gorgon picture comes,
With ev'ry Fury grinning from the looks
Of frightful monster—Envy's hissing tongue,
With deepest vengeance wounds, and ev'ry wound
With deeper canker, deeper poison teems.
O gold! thy luring lustre first prevail'd
On man to tempt the fretful winds and waves,
And hunt new fancies. Still thy glaring form
Bids commerce thrive, and o'er the Indian waves,
O'er-stemming danger, draw the lab'ring keel
From China's coast to Britain's colder clime,
Fraught with the fruits and herbage of their vales;
In them whatever vegetable springs,
How lothsome and corrupted, triumphs here,
The bane of life, of health the sure decay;
Yet, yet ye swallow, and extol the draught,
Tho' nervous ails should spring, and vap'rish qualms
Our senses and our appetites destroy.
Look round, ye sipplers of the poison'd cup
From foreign plant distill'd! no more repine
That Nature, sparing of her sacred sweets,
Hath doom'd you in a wilderness to dwell,
While round Britannia's streams she kindly rears
Green sage and wild thyme—These were sure decreed
As plants of Britain to regale her sons
With native moisture, more refreshing sweet,
And more profuse of health and vigour's balm,
Than all the stems that India can boast.