Great-great-grandmother, Winifred Lee,
Brought, when she came across the sea,
A porcelain tea-pot pictured o’er,
After a fashion they knew of yore,
Bright with birds and with summer flowers
And fairies dancing in shady bowers—
A pretty treasure to keep in mind
The pleasant home she had left behind.
Weeks of battle with storm and gale
Wore on timber and mast and sail,
And just a league from its destined goal
The ship was wrecked on a hidden shoal.
Rescued, the people sped to shore,
Saving their lives and nothing more.
But Winifred, pacing the beach next day,
Dreaming of England far away—
A little homesick, and lone, and sad,
In spite of the morning gay and glad—
Saw, as she strolled, how the thieving tide
Had brought its plunder and scattered wide,
And behold, in seaweed carefully wound,
The porcelain tea-pot safe and sound!
When years had passed and the King’s demand
Roused the people of all the land,
And a ship’s cargo was put away
To steep at the bottom of Boston Bay,
With a rebel heart and a flashing eye
Winifred laid her tea-pot by;
“Till we are granted our rights,” said she,
“I’ll drink not another cup of tea.”
(Oh, matrons of this luxurious age,
Who lightly turn from History’s page,
Just for a year or two forego
Your redolent draughts of rare Pekoe,
And say if you deem the self-denial
Of our great-great-grandmothers not a trial!)
Murder, and pillage, and cannon’s roar,
All along the Connecticut shore,
Frighted from town the worthy dame.
Next day a barrack her house became,
And a troop of Redcoats helped themselves
To all they could find on the pantry shelves.
They drank and feasted, and sang and swore,
They tumbled the beds and the curtains tore,
And the quiet, orderly, well-kept house
Was the scene of a livelong night’s carouse.
Homeward stealing when they had passed,
Winifred gazed at the sight aghast.
With wrecks of revel the floors were strewn,
With tables broken and chairs o’erthrown;
Delicate saucer, and cup, and plate,
Ruined all—but, strange to relate,
The porcelain tea-pot standing still,
Safe and sound, on a window-sill!
Long and long have the lichens grown,
Wreathing a slender slab of stone,
Till scarcely the letters can you see
That spell the name of Winifred Lee.
But the pictured porcelain, handed down,
Far from the old elm-shaded town,
An heirloom prized, had found retreat
High over a thronged Chicago street—
There, in its corner, fresh and gay
As tho’ it were made but yesterday.
When in the night a terror came,
And the great city was red with flame,
And the people, jostling, gasped for breath
As they wildly fled from the jaws of death;
Little leisure or care had they
Their household treasures to bear away.
Nevertheless, as one returned
To where the débris smouldering burned,
Where heaps of ashes, and brick, and stone,
Were all that remained of a goodly home—
Saving a charred and blackened wall,
Like skeleton rising gaunt and tall—
Glancing upward, with wondering eye,
The marvelous tea-pot did he spy,
Boldly gleaming against the sky.
Ah, old tea-pot, gleaming still,
What is the magic that guards from ill,
From tempest, and war, and time, and fire—
All for thy ruin that conspire?
Behold thee, shining so bright and gay!
Old tea-pot, art thou bewitched, I say?
If that be true, and in some hour
Thou shouldst possess thee of speech the power,
With the vapor that curls from thy graceful spout
What prisoned secret wilt thou let out?
Wilt tell how gossips have lisped and chided
At little suppers where thou hast presided?
Wilt ever laugh at the fortunes told,
The willing credence of young and old,
As the sibylline leaves thou didst unfold?
Forsooth, as I watch thee blink and shine
In that remarkable way of thine,
I’m half afraid of thee!—No, not so,
Thou precious relic of long ago!
Breathing fragrance and friendly cheer,
Live for many and many a year!
The next Centennial may’st thou see,
Is the toast I drink in a cup of tea.
Orange, N. J., 1876.