The Drunkard's Children A Sequel to "The Bottle" [by Charles Mackay] |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
Part the Seventh.
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| VIII. |
 | The Drunkard's Children |  |
VII. Part the Seventh.
I
The deep cold shadow of a coming illFalls first upon the heart. Eye cannot see,
Sense cannot fathom it; creative will
Knows not its form, or shapes what it shall be;
But far away from dim futurity
Premonitory glooms their chillness pour;—
Though earth lie smiling—though the sky, cloud-free,
Show not a sign of tempests that may lour—
Th'instinctive heart is sad, and knows the evil hour.
II
Sent to the hulks, a melancholy bandWaited with Edward till a ship should sail,
Laden with exiles from their native land
To bear hard fate in Australasian vale,
Or work in quarries on the scorching shale
Of Norfolk Island. Edward pined to know
The change of travel; thirsted to inhale
The breath of tropic skies, and winds that blow
Health to the panting lungs; and prayed that he might go.
III
For o'er his youthful frame a languor crept;His blood was thin, his once strong arm was weak,
His voice was low; unsteadily he stept,
And a red spot burned on his pallid cheek;
Sure signs that, ev'n to casual eyes, bespeak
Consumption's ravage. Fierce excess had wrought
This havoc in him. Dissipations wreak
Unerring vengeance; and his youth had sought
Pleasures of every kind, inventable by thought.
IV
Pleasures?—Ay, called so—sweetness breeding gall;Bright cup with poisonous essence—Dead-Sea fruit.
Deep had he drunk and eaten of them all
With passions wild of prematurest shoot;
Oft had he suffered agonies acute,
Old in his teens, and verging to decay.
Alas! poor sapling, blighted at the root!
Fair though the morn, the darkness dimmed its ray—
And long before the noon the night o'ershadowed day.
V
No foreign skies were destined o'er his headTo pour their healing. Strength had failed him quite;
The lamp of light but flickering radiance shed—
Its oil was wasted in too fierce a light;
Burned ere its time—unnaturally bright.
The watchful Surgeon marked him as he went,
And knew the victim of the Human Blight—
Knew the disease beyond medicament,
And ordered rest and care, and kindness provident.
VI
Few days sufficed. On board the prison shipHelpless he lay—too weak to suffer pain;
And aye he muttered, with a quivering lip,
Praise of the sunshine, which, not all in vain,
Streamed through the grating on his thankful brain.
And daily at his bed the Chaplain knelt,
And breathed his Gospel words in fervent strain;
And taught the dying boy the peace he felt,
And how, for deepest sin, forgiveness might be dealt.
VII
So lived—so died he, ere his early prime—So vicious father shaped the life he gave;
So folly led to vice, and vice to crime;
So crime to sorrow, sorrow to the grave.
Let no man think, if he himself deprave,
That with himself the evil shall expire.
Unhappy Adam Roy! thou couldst not save
Thy wretched children from Destruction's fire.
One doom engulfed ye all—son, daughter, mother, sire!
| The Drunkard's Children | |