Shod with the well-heeled boots, whose knell
Afar along the pavement sounds,
Blent with the tinkling muffin-bell,
Or milkman, shrilling on his rounds.
_Nil tangis quod non ornas._ Nay,
'Tis not alone the parsley sprig,
The paper frill, the fennel spray,
The Yule-tide's pertly-berried twig;
But common objects by thy art
Some proper beauty seem to own;
Thy chop is as a chop apart,
Fraught with a grace before unknown;
The very egg thou poachest seems
Some work of deft _orfevrerie_,--
A yolk of gold that chastely gleams
Through a thin shrine of ivory.
From thee no pale and wilted ghost,
Or branded by the blackening bar,
But crisp and cheery comes the toast,
And brown as ripening hazels are.
Thy butter has not lost the voice
Of English meads, where cowslips grow,
And oh, the bacon of thy choice--
Rose-jacinth labyrinthed in snow!
And mutton, colder than the kiss
Of formal love, where loathing lurks
Its deadlier chill doth wholly miss,
Fired with the spirit of thy works.
To true occasion thou art true,
As upon great occasions great;
Doing whatever Cook may do
When PHYLLIS, neat, alone will wait,
As when the neighbouring villas send
Their modish guests to statelier fare,
And PHYLLIS, neat, is helped to tend
By that staid man the Greengrocer.
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