Poems (Howard)/"The Cup That Cheers"

by Hattie Howard

"The Cup that Cheers".

Dear "Lib," I shall not soon forget
 The pleasure of that day,
And owe you one delicious debt
 I never hope to pay.

To "resurrect" my coffee-pot
 Became my chief employ,
And never yet was labor fraught
 With more abundant joy.

It seemed to me a cruel age
 Since I had heard it boil
With aromatic beverage
 That compensated toil.

I followed your directions through,
 Unto the "bitter end"—
I mean, of course, the end in view—
 But you will comprehend.

With cream as thick as "Patent glue,"
 I mixed it,—half and half,—
And thought of rare "ambrosial dew"
 Divinities might quaff.

The miseries of other years,
 As if in an eclipse,
Were hidden in "the cup that cheers"
 Whene'er it touched my lips.

I drank your dear, delightful health
 In steaming fragrance sweet;
And had I any surplus wealth,
 I'd lay it at your feet.

If my ship ever reaches shore,
 You shall be rightful heir,—
When I have told my ducats o'er,—
 To all I have to spare.

Don't let my generous projects, though,
 More brilliant prospects mar;
I merely thought you'd like to know
 What my intentions are.

A sad reflection, is it not,
 That one can scarce restrain,
That pleasure, how or where 't is sought,
 Is so allied to pain?

And so, while memory holds the cup
 From whence delight I drew,
That hideous night that "used me up,"
 Will be remembered, too.

Oh! ghosts of unforgiven crimes!
 That dissipating draught,
Ere morning dawned, a thousand times,
 I wished I'd never quaffed.

I watched the clock, and every stroke
 I counted, until two—
And faintly hoped, till daylight broke,
 I'd somehow "worry through."

Nobody knows when it begun,
 But sleep I must have got,
Because I dreamed the world was one
 Tremendous coffee-pot.

I thought the mighty ocean wide,
 Was one enormous cup
Of fragrant nectar—and I cried
 Because I'd drunk it up.

I 've learned, by dear experience,
 My duty now—and here's
My latest vow—forever hence,
 To shun "the cup that cheers."

Per favor of my haunting muse,
 This "wail of woe" I've penned,
And trust your goodness to excuse
 The freedom of—A Friend.