&nbspO Muse who sangest late another's pain,
       &nbspTo griefs domestic turn thy coal-black steed!
       &nbspWith slowest steps thy funeral steed must go,
       &nbspNodding his head in all the pomp of woe:
       &nbspWide scatter round each dark and deadly weed,
       &nbspAnd let the melancholy dirge complain,
       &nbsp(Whilst Bats shall shriek and Dogs shall howling run)
The tea-kettle is spoilt and Coleridge is undone!


       &nbspYour cheerful songs, ye unseen crickets, cease!
       &nbspLet songs of grief your alter'd minds engage!
       &nbspFor he who sang responsive to your lay,
       &nbspWhat time the joyous bubbles 'gan to play,
       &nbspThe sooty swain has felt the fire's fierce rage;—
       &nbspYes, he is gone, and all my woes increase;
       &nbspI heard the water issuing from the wound—
No more the Tea shall pour its fragrant steams around!

       &nbspO Goddess best belov'd! Delightful Tea!
       &nbspWith thee compar'd what yields the madd'ning Vine?
       &nbspSweet power! who know'st to spread the calm delight,
       &nbspAnd the pure joy prolong to midmost night!
       &nbspAh! must I all thy varied sweets resign?
       &nbspEnfolded close in grief thy form I see;
No more wilt thou extend thy willing arms,
Receive the fervent Jove, and yield him all thy charms!


       &nbspHow sink the mighty low by Fate opprest!—
       &nbspPerhaps, O Kettle! thou by scornful toe
       &nbspRude urg'd t' ignoble place with plaintive din.
       &nbspMay'st rust obscure midst heaps of vulgar tin;—
       &nbspAs if no joy had ever seiz'd my breast
       &nbspWhen from thy spout the streams did arching fly,—
       &nbspAs if, infus'd, thou ne'er hadst known t' inspire
       &nbspAll the warm raptures of poetic fire!


       &nbspBut hark! or do I fancy the glad voice—
       &nbsp'What tho' the swain did wondrous charms disclose—
       &nbsp(Not such did Memnon's sister sable drest)
       &nbspTake these bright arms with royal face imprest,
       &nbspA better Kettle shall thy soul rejoice,
       &nbspAnd with Oblivion's wings o'erspread thy woes!'
       &nbspThus Fairy Hope can soothe distress and toil;
On empty Trivets she bids fancied Kettles boil!