Duganne's Poetical Works :: :: University of Virginia Library

I'M thinking on thy smile, Mary!
Thy bright and trusting smile—
In the morning of our youth and love,
Ere sorrow came, or guile;
When thine arms were twined about my neck,
And mine eyes look'd into thine;
And the heart that throbb'd for me alone
Was nestling close to mine.

I see full many a smile, Mary!
On young lips beaming bright;
And many an eye of light and love
Is flashing in my sight:
But the smile is not for my poor heart,
And the eye looks strange on me;
And a loneliness comes o'er my soul,
When its memory turns to thee.

I'm thinking on the night, Mary!
The night of grief and shame,
When, with drunken ravings on my lip,
To thee I homeward came:

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Oh! the tear was in thine earnest eye,
And thy bosom wildly heaved;
Yet a smile of love was on thy cheek,
Though thy heart was sorely grieved.

Oh! my words were harsh to thee, Mary!
For the wine-cup made me wild;
And I chid thee when thine eyes were sad,
And I cursed thee when they smil'd.
God knows I loved thee, even then,
But the fire was in my brain;
And the curse of drink was in my heart,
To make my love a bane!

'Twas a pleasant home of ours, Mary!
In the spring-time of our life—
When I look'd upon thy trusting face,
And proudly call'd thee, “wife!”
And 'twas pleasant when the children play'd,
Before our cottage door;—
But the children sleep with thee, Mary!
I ne'er shall see them more!

Thou art resting in the churchyard now,
And no stone is at thy head;
But the sexton knows a drunkard's wife
Sleeps in that lowly bed:

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And he says the hand of God, Mary!
Will fall, with crushing weight,
On the wretch who brought thy gentle life
To its untimely fate!

But he knows not of the broken heart
I bear within my breast,
Nor the heavy load of vain remorse,
That will not let me rest!
He knows not of the sleepless nights,
When, dreaming of thy love,
I seem to see thine angel eyes
Look coldly from above.

I have raised the wine-cup in my hand,
And the wildest strains I've sung,
Till with the laugh of drunken mirth
The echoing air has rung,—
But a pale and sorrowing face look'd out
From the glittering cup on me;
And a trembling whisper I have heard,
That I fancied breath'd by thee!

Thou art resting in the silent grave,
And thy sleep is dreamless now;
But the seal of an undying grief
Is on thy mourner's brow!

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And my heart is chill as thine, Mary!
For the joys of life have fled—
And I long to lay my aching breast
With the cold and dreamless dead!

University of Virginia Library

THE DRUNKARD'S LAMENT. This poem has been extensively circulated—printed in almost every journal of the country. It was dedicated, with music, to “Father Matthew,” who, in a letter to the author, remarks, that “its circulation will be of great benefit to the holy cause of temperance.”

THE DRUNKARD'S LAMENT.

This poem has been extensively circulated—printed in almost every journal of the country. It was dedicated, with music, to “Father Matthew,” who, in a letter to the author, remarks, that “its circulation will be of great benefit to the holy cause of temperance.”