OLD CHINA.

    My china makes my old room bright—­
      On table, shelf and chiffonnier,
    Sevres, Oriental, blue and white,
      Leeds, Worcester, Derby—­all are here.

    The Stafford figures, quaint and grim,
      The Chelsea shepherdesses, each
    Has its own tale—­in twilight dim
      My heart can hear their old-world speech.

    That vase came with a soldier’s “loot,”
      From Eastern cities over seas,
    That dish held golden globes of fruit,
      When oranges were rarities.

    That tea-cup touched two lovers’ hands,
      When Lady Betty poured the tea;
    That jar came from far Mongol lands
      To hold Dorinda’s pot-pourri.

    That flask of musk, still faintly smelling,
      On Mistress Coquette’s toilet lay;
    And there’s a tale, too long for telling,
      Connected with that snuffer-tray.

    What vows that patch-box has heard spoken! 
      That bowl was deemed a prize to win,
    Till the dark day when it got broken,
      And someone put these rivets in.

    My china breathes of days, not hours,
      Of patches, powder, belle and beau,
    Of sun-dials, secrets, yew-tree bowers,
      And the romance of long ago.

    It tells old stories—­verse and prose—­
      Which no one now has wit to write,
    The sweet, sad tales that no one knows,
      The deathless charm of dead delight.