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 ordain’d 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 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, 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, combin’d, had hurl’d Their conquering javelin round the world.

“O! Indian shrub, thy fragrant flowers To England’s weal had deadly powers, When Despotism, with impious hand, To venom turn’d thine essence bland, To venom, subtle, foul, and fell, As steep’d the dart of Isdabel!

“Have we forgot that dread libation Which cost the life of half the nation? When Boston, with indignant thought, Saw poison in the perfum’d draught, And caus’d her troubled bay to be But one vast bowl of bitter Tea; While Ate, chiefly bidden guest, Came sternly to the fatal feast, And mingled with its baneful flood Brother’s!—Children’s!—Parent’s blood; Dire as the banquet Atreus serv’d, When his own son Thyestes carv’d, And Phœbus, shrinking from the sight, Drew o’er his orb the pall of night.

“To-morrow then, at least, refrain, Nor quaff thy bleeding country’s bane! For O! reflect, poetic Daughter, ’Twas hapless Britain’s laurel-water!”