The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
Oh! could I write that I myself could save
From this one curse, this sure untimely grave,
This endless want, that soon must stop my breath,
These flaming draughts, which bring disease and death,
Then should my Muse upon her wings advance,
And Genius triumph o'er Intemperance.
I know there's mirth, and oft a flash of joy,
When friends with friends a social hour employ,
When the full bowl is circled all around,
And not a single jarring string is found;
But truest wisdom of a young man's heart,
Is well to know the moment to depart.
Thousands of hopeful youths, who first begin
To mix with friends in this bewitching sin,
Soon lose their resolution, and what then?
Their privilege is gone to other men,
Their wealth has wasted, and the landlord, where
They seemed so happy with his social cheer,
When all is spent, and all resources o'er,
Soon kicks the starving wretches out of door.
I could employ my pen for weeks, for years,
Write on this subject, wet it with my tears;
For spacious as the ocean is the scope,
For drinking drowns all genius, wealth, and hope,
Lays best of characters below the dust,
And fills connections with a deep distrust.
But in weak verse the ills can ne'er be told—
Eternity alone can these unfold.
That I may know these ills, and stop in time,
Is my last wish, as thus I end the rhyme.
From this one curse, this sure untimely grave,
This endless want, that soon must stop my breath,
These flaming draughts, which bring disease and death,
Then should my Muse upon her wings advance,
And Genius triumph o'er Intemperance.
166
When friends with friends a social hour employ,
When the full bowl is circled all around,
And not a single jarring string is found;
But truest wisdom of a young man's heart,
Is well to know the moment to depart.
Thousands of hopeful youths, who first begin
To mix with friends in this bewitching sin,
Soon lose their resolution, and what then?
Their privilege is gone to other men,
Their wealth has wasted, and the landlord, where
They seemed so happy with his social cheer,
When all is spent, and all resources o'er,
Soon kicks the starving wretches out of door.
I could employ my pen for weeks, for years,
Write on this subject, wet it with my tears;
For spacious as the ocean is the scope,
For drinking drowns all genius, wealth, and hope,
Lays best of characters below the dust,
And fills connections with a deep distrust.
But in weak verse the ills can ne'er be told—
Eternity alone can these unfold.
That I may know these ills, and stop in time,
Is my last wish, as thus I end the rhyme.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |