University of Virginia Library

The Chaplain sends his whisper round:
Then follows much more sense than sound;
For who, above an Esquimaux,
Would speak till the Entree's withdraw?
What mortal that pretends to taste,
Would see such moments run to waste?
Till, with the lighter entremets
The business lessens by degrees.
Then whispers wake!—a dropping fire,
That seems to near you, then expire;
A kind of conversation-ague,
That comes at intervals to plague you;
Instalments of a debt of tongue,
You wish the caller for it hung:
A tardy, intermittent talk,
Like watchmen on their midnight walk,
Just venturing from their wooden den,
To growl, and be ensconced again.
Then, as the wine its circuit goes,
We start upon the native prose;
The atmospheric Conversation
Dear to our weather-beaten nation.
“Fine morning,—stormy—sunshine—cloudy—
So cold, scarce gave her grace a how-d'ye;—
The park hot—damp—dry—rainy—fine—
Calm—windy—honor to take wine;
Sharp breeze; Lord Duke—Tokay?”—“With pleasure.”
Till of his neighbour each takes measure;
No doubt we thus escape High Treason,—
In England all things have a reason.