"But if my face is lank, my mind is firmly fixed So to fire my golden buds they shall excel all beside. But how know I who'll put them into the gemmy cup? Who at leisure will with her taper fingers give them to the maid to draw?" Will any one say, after this, that there is no poetry connected with tea? The theme, in truth, is replete with poetical associations, and of a kind that we look in vain for in connection with any other potable. Unlike the Anacreontic in praise of the grape,--song suggestive chiefly of bacchanal revels and loose jollity,--the verse which extols "the cup that cheers, but not inebriates," brings to mind home comforts and a happy household. 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. A winding wall of mossy stone, Frost-flung and broken, lines A lonesome acre thinly grown With grass and wandering vines. Without the wall a birch-tree shows Its drooped and tasselled head; Within, a stag-horned sumach grows, Fern-leafed with spikes of red. There, sheep that graze the neighboring plain Like white ghosts come and go, The farm-horse drags his fetlock chain, The cow-bell tinkles slow. Low moans the river from its bed, The distant pines reply; Like mourners shrinking from the dead, They stand apart and sigh. Unshaded smites the summer sun, Unchecked the winter blast; The school-girl learns the place to shun, With glances backward cast. For thus our fathers testified-- That he might read who ran-- The emptiness of human pride, The nothingness of man.