To Mrs. K—, On Her Sending Me English Christmas Plumb-Cake, At Paris.

TO MRS. K—,

ON HER SENDING ME ENGLISH CHRISTMAS PLUMB-CAKE, AT PARIS.

WHAT crowding thoughts around me wake, What marvels in a Christmas-cake! Ah say, what strange enchantment dwells Enclos'd within its od'rous cells? Is there no small magician bound Encrusted in its snowy round? For magic surely lurks in this, A cake that tells of vanish'd bliss; A cake that conjures up to view The early scenes, when life was new; When mem'ry knew no sorrows past, And hope believ'd in joys that last! — Mysterious cake, whose folds contain Life's calendar of bliss and pain; That speaks of friends for ever fled, And wakes the tears I love to shed. Oft shall I breathe her cherish'd name From whose fair hand the off'ring came: For she recalls the artless smile Of nymphs that deck my native Isle; Of beauty that we love to trace, Allied with tender, modest grace; Of those who, while abroad they roam, Retain each charm that gladdens home, And whose dear friendship can impart A Christmas banquet for the heart!