Verses Inviting Mrs. C — to Tea on a public Fast-day During the American War*
Dear Stella, ’mid the pious sorrow
Our monarch bids us feel to-morrow,
The ahs! and ohs! supremely triste,
The abstinence from beef, and whist;
Wisely ordained to please the Lord,
And force him whet our edgeless sword,
Till, shipping o’er the Atlantic rill,
We cut provincial throats at will;
’Midst all the penitence we feel
For merry sins, – ’midst all the zeal [10]
For vengeance on the saucy foe,
Who lays our boasted legions low;
I wish, when sullen evening comes,
That you, to gild its falling glooms,
Would, without scruple cold, agree
Beneath these walls to sip your tea.
From the chaste, fragrant, Indian weed
Our sins no pampering juices feed;
And though the hours, with contrite faces,
May banish the ungodly aces, [20]
And take of food a sparing bit,
They’ll gluttonize on Stella’s wit.
‘Tea!’ cries a Patriot, ‘on that day
’Twere good you flung the drug away,
Rememb’ring ’twas the cruel source
Of sad distrust, and long divorce
’Twixt nations, which, combined, had hurled
Their conquering javelin round the world.
‘O! Indian shrub, thy fragrant flowers
To England’s weal had deadly powers, [30]
When Despotism, with impious hand,
To venom turned thy essence bland,
To venom, subtle, foul and fell,
As steeped the dart of Isdabel!
‘Have we forgot the dread libation
Which cost the life of half the nation?
When Boston, with indignant thought
Saw poison in the perfumed draught,
And caused her troubled bay to be
But one vast bowl, of bitter tea; [40]
While Ate, chiefly bidden guest,
Came sternly to the fatal feast,
And mingled with its baneful flood
Brothers’! – children’s! – parents’ blood;
Dire as the banquet Atreus served,
When his own son Thyestes carved,
And Phoebus, shrinking from the sight,
Drew o’er his orb the pall of night.
‘Tomorrow then, at least, refrain,
Nor quaff thy bleeding country’s bane! [50]
For O! reflect, poetic daughter,
’Twas hapless Britain’s laurel-water’.