Poems By John Moultrie. New ed |
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THE SONG OF THE KETTLE.
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THE SONG OF THE KETTLE.
I
What decks our sober parsonage to-dayWith this unusual pomp of festal show?
What mean these tents, bedight with streamers gay?
These tables, spread in long continuous row?—
This throng of busy peasants to and fro?
Yon maypole wreathed with yet unfaded flowers,
Braving the blasts that all too wintry blow,
And ever and anon, with sleety showers,
Bemock the cold mid-May of this wild clime of ours?
II
Not without previous care and tasteful toilHath all this rural pageantry been wrought;
But yesternight the meadows' flowery spoil,
By children's hands with childish ardour sought,
193
And then and there did gentle ladies twine
Those flowery wreaths, and with fantastic thought,
Primrose and cowslip and blue bell combine
In forms and hues so rich as mock this verse of mine.
III
And here, all day, since earliest peep of dawn,Hath rustic labour preparation made
For feats gymnastic on the wanton lawn,
With stroke and thrust of hammer, saw, and spade;
Here tilters deft shall dexterously evade
The quintain's swift and ignominious blow;—
Here shall the wrestler at his length be laid,
Lock'd in the gripe of his victorious foe;
Here youths and maids shall point the light fantastic toe.
IV
But wherefore here? where solemn thought should dwell,And heavenly contemplation oft be found,
And silence house, as in a hermit's cell,
And pious cares and studies aye abound,
Untroubled by the world's intrusive sound?—
Why all this coil of boisterous frolic here?
Startling the tenants of the graves around,
And ever bursting on the living ear
With uproar meeter sure for some less sober sphere?
V
'Tis not our pastor's wont, nor e'er hath been,Since first in Christian fold a flock he fed,
To mingle with gay crowds in festal scene;—
Full surely to the world we deem'd him dead,
A life so grave and sober hath he led,
Shunning whate'er to puritanic eye
Might cause offence;—so much he seem'd to dread,
Lest keen schismatics should in him espy
Occasion to impeach and mar his ministry.
194
VI
No feaster he, nor sportsman, nor alertAt feats athletic—save that, in his day,
At England's game of games he was expert,
And loved with jovial cricketers to play,
So wasting many a summer holiday;
But now that pastime too he doth forego,
Nor e'er in flannel garb his loins array,
Nor arm his foot with iron spikes below,
Nor wield the ponderous bat with skilful block and blow.
VII
A graver interest warms his heart to-day,Grave meaning lurks beneath his mirthful mood,
Some graver purpose owns this trim array
Of tents and tables piled with daintiest food—
These garlands wreath'd by tasteful womanhood—
This preparation for athletic sport;—
Mock not, ye graceless—marvel not, ye good;—
Here Temperance holds to-day her solemn court,
Whereto her liegemen true, in festive pomp, resort.
VIII
A Power benignant she, and once on EarthWell known and honour'd;—health's secure ally,
Sworn friend of household peace and social mirth,
And happiness, and love, and liberty;
Sedate her mien and modest is her eye,
From meretricious wiles exempt and pure;
No care hath she, the casual passer by
With smiles of harlot blandishment to lure,
But wins by quiet worth, and knows her triumph sure.
IX
Small store of season'd viands loads her board,No sparkling wine-cup at her feasts is seen;
Yet she the choicest dainties doth afford
To healthful tastes, and reigns in state serene,
195
Hers is the cheerful home, the fire-side glee,
The rustic game, the dance upon the green;—
And eke the kettle's song, the toast, the tea,
The gleam of household smiles, from guilt and sorrow free.
X
Ah me! that ever nymph so fair and goodMen should have banish'd from our luckless isle
Through lust of tempting drink and luscious food,
Duped and enslaved by that enchanter vile,
Accursed Comus, who doth yet defile
Our homes and hearths with riotous excess,
Stealing the heart and brain with treacherous guile,
And breeding deadlier woe than thought can guess
Through brutish sensual waste and filthy drunkenness.
XI
O shun his proffer'd draught, unthinking swains,In whom not yet is appetite subdued
To Reason's temperate rule;—that cup contains
Circeian juice with poisonous drugs imbued
Whereof who freely drinks, albeit endued
With natural graces manifold, casts off
His better self, grows sensual, wild and lewd,
And doth at life's true pleasures rail and scoff,
Herding with human swine, and wallowing in their trough.
XII
Yet sweet, at first, the luscious beverage seems,Which, like an adder, stingeth at the last,—
The wine that sparkles in rich ruby gleams,
The ale by amber's clearness unsurpass'd;—
And pleasures throng around it thick and fast—
Gay spirits—generous feelings—social glee,
And blithe good humour by no cloud o'ercast,—
Frolic and song and laughter loud and free—
Yea, all the joys that wait on jocund jollity.
196
XIII
Right pleasant 'twere to quaff that charmed cup,And feel its inspiration rich and fine,
Were no sharp bitters with the dregs mix'd up,
Were social gladness all that flows from wine;
Then Bacchus were indeed a god divine,
And Circe's son a welcome guest on Earth;
But soon alas! those giddy joys decline,
And furious folly takes the place of mirth,
And fever'd brain and blood to lust and rage give birth.
XIV
Strange sight it is, I ween, at lordly feast,Or alehouse revel, (as the case may be)
To mark the gradual change of man to beast,
The quick transition from convivial glee
To tipsy fun and senseless ribaldry;
Thence to mad riot and unseemly brawl,
Or brutish, base insensibility,
As, in their strength or weakness, one and all,
Beneath the enchanter's spell, in swift succession fall.
XV
Gentle at first his stealthy influence seems;He opens the shut heart, and frees the tongue
Of shy reserve, and lights the eye with gleams
Of kindling humour round the table flung,
And cheers the drooping soul which seem'd unstrung
For boisterous joys, and tunes the timid voice
To jovial ditties in full chorus sung,
And charms the ear with talk so quaint and choice
As makes the dull applaud—the sorrowful rejoice.
XVI
Anon a change doth o'er this spirit pass,Discourse more freely, but less clearly, flows;
This grows a pert, and that a solemn ass,
And maudlin fervour makes sworn friends of foes,
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(Extremes so nearly meet,) and you may see
Black eye, and broken head, and bloody nose,
Marring the mirth of this fair company;—
Sure Circe's swine themselves could scarce more swinish be.
XVII
And one, with solemn air and swimming eyes,Draws saws of tipsy morals to deaf ears;
One, at full length, beneath the table lies
In most unsavoury plight, nor sees nor hears
The brawls or babble of his drunk compeers,
So well the wine hath done its work on him;
There let him lie till sober morn appears,
Then wake with throbbing brow and aching limb;—
Woke never mortal wight in more unseemly trim.
XVIII
Time was when scenes like these you might beholdE'en in the Palace-Halls of Albion's isle;
So closely did the curst Enchanter hold
Peasant and Prince in bondage base and vile,
And all the virtues of all ranks defile;
Nor Learning's cloister'd shades withstood his power,
Nor shrank he back abash'd from Beauty's smile,
But durst, with steps profane, invade her bower,
Reeling from revels gross, prolong'd for many an hour.
XIX
Then without shame on drawing-rooms' retreat,Whereto, ere wine grows wanton, dames retire,
Would sots intrude, who scarce could keep their feet,—
The drunken lord and doubly drunken squire,
Their brains bewilder'd, and their blood on fire.
Then felt the enamour'd youth, thro' hot excess,
His bashful love transform'd to bold desire,
And gazed upon his fair one's loveliness
With looks from which she shrank as from a fiend's caress.
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XX
Those days are past;—but tho' at length expell'dFrom courtly halls, or there with chains fast bound,
And wand reversed,—the miscreant, yet unquell'd,
In lowlier homes and meaner haunts is found,
Still too triumphant upon British ground;
Him taverns worship, him the alehouse owns
Lord of each loathsome sight and bestial sound;
Him the gin-palace in full state enthrones—
That charnel, fair without, but fill'd with dead men's bones.
XXI
And in the streets, at midnight, you may hearHis votaries from their orgies staggering out,
Flush'd high with brandy or ignoble beer,
And roaming, like enfranchised fiends, about,
With many a wanton song and deafening shout,
Startling the sober citizen from sleep,
Who haply opes his casement, and thereout
At those mad revels doth affrighted peep,
Which they, in frantic sport, right mischievously keep.
XXII
Then from obnoxious doors are knockers wrung,And pannels with incongruous paint o'erspread,
And signs torn down, till watchmen's rattles sprung
Sound to the charge, and soon some senseless head,
Split by the official staff's congenial lead,
Discloses to men's eyes its lack of brains;
And one, self-rescued, staggers home to bed,
And one, all night, in durance vile remains,
Consign'd to watch-house base—fit guerdon for his pains.
XXIII
These, Comus, are thy triumphs—but alas!Not these alone—ah would that these were all!
For thou all fiends in mischief dost surpass,
Plague most accurst of this terrestrial ball!
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Beneath thy blasting spell;—alas for those
Whom thou, with fatal witcheries, dost enthrall!
No more shall they in peaceful homes repose,
But waste in swift decay, pierced through with many woes.
XXIV
Theirs is the trembling hand, the pimpled cheek,The purple nose, the lean and shrunken limb,
The bloated trunk, the gait infirm and weak,
The palsied head, the eyeball blear'd and dim.
Woe to the sot! yet not alone to him;
Woe, woe to those whom once he held most dear!—
His little ones a prey to famine grim,
His wife left weeping in her chamber drear,
Yet waiting his return with less of hope than fear.
XXV
Ah wretched she! more wretched for the peaceWhich once was hers, and which, when life was young,
She fondly hoped with life alone should cease,
When he upon her neck, enamour'd, hung,
And vowed with winning and persuasive tongue,
His life, himself, his body, soul and sense
Hers until death;—nor were such pleasures flung
At random from his lips in base pretence,
But breathed in honest truth and frankest confidence.
XXVI
Nor lack'd their early years of wedded loveThe choicest pleasures which that state can yield,
Until strong drink seduced his steps to rove
From duty's path, and soon his bosom steel'd
Against all power which Love and Hymen yield;
For he of pious parents born and bred,
His vows devoutly at the altar seal'd,
And long the tenderest husband's life had led;
Seem'd never mortal pair with brighter hopes to wed.
200
XXVII
And blessed was their basket and their store,For industry and honest thrift were theirs;
And still they loved each other more and more,
For that joint burden of parental cares
Which grew and gather'd round them unawares
As sons and daughters, year by year, were born,—
Dear subjects of new hopes, and fears, and prayers;
Alas that e'er such home should be forlorn,
Or heart so fond as hers by such fierce anguish torn!
XXVIII
Sly was the fiend's approach;—in friendship's guise,And hand in hand with “Auld lang syne” he came;
And if the victim's heart, more warm than wise,
Too freely open'd, few would harshly blame,—
Few, in his place, but would have done the same.
Yet there the first and fatal fault crept in,
And at its heels came sorrow, guilt, and shame,
Remorse in liquor quench'd, and deepening sin,
So steep is Hell's descent when we to err begin!
XXIX
First tyrant Custom fill'd the dangerous cupIn Friendship's name, and thus the alehouse dire
Was, in his thoughts, with holier things mix'd up;
Then, by degrees, insatiable desire
Of that fell poison set his throat on fire,
Weaning his heart from his pure peaceful home,
Till, day by day, would he from work retire
To that foul den, nor near his cottage come,
Its pleasures now appear'd so tame and wearisome.
XXX
His home-spent hours—ah! wherefore flag they now?They flagg'd not when a life of toil he led,
By daily sweat of his industrious brow
Earning his wife's, his children's daily bread;
201
What shelter shall they find from winter's cold?
Alas for them!—far better were they dead!—
Their food withheld—their raiment pawn'd or sold,—
Their mother sick and weak, for very grief grown old.
XXXI
No hope for her!—with hard and ceaseless toilEarly she labours, and but late takes rest;
In vilest drudgery doth her beauty soil,—
No murmur utter'd, no complaint express'd,
Though wasting anguish is her daily guest;
And still her needful food doth she forego,
To calm their hunger whom she loveth best;
And still, thro' wintry frost and driving snow,
Ill shod and scantly clothed, to daily labour go.
XXXII
No hope for her!—scarce all her toil can winA scanty pittance of the coarsest bread;
And when, sore spent, at evening, she comes in,
Cowering she sits, and trembles, pale with dread,
If she but hear her husband's coming tread,
Lest he that pittance from her children tear,
And barter it for drink;—their marriage-bed
Long since was sold;—of table, stool, and chair,
Yea all, save mouldering walls, her wretched hut is bare.
XXXIII
Cowering she sits beside her fireside hearth,Her children shivering in their straw with cold,—
Till, with a sudden shout of brutal mirth,
The crazy door is shatter'd, and behold!
Him whom her youthful arms were wont to fold
In tenderest transport, now, in drunken ire,
Showering fierce blows and curses uncontroll'd
On her—on her so long his heart's desire,—
For whose dear sake he toil'd, with zeal which nought could tire.
202
XXXIV
No hope for her!—the subtle fiend in himHath done its perfect work, and he hath grown
A reckless tyrant, sensual, sullen, grim;
His heart, once flesh, is now transform'd to stone.
Deaf is he to his famish'd children's moan,
And if benigner death should set them free
From life-long woes, would mock their dying groan
With drunken shouts of most unnatural glee;—
So lost to human love—to human shame is he.
XXXV
No hope for her!—yes, one, she thinks, is left—O! if perchance in some long wished-for hour,
When, not of sense and feeling quite bereft
By dire intoxication's deadly power,
He yet might ope his bosom to a shower
Of loving words, kind looks, and gentle smiles,
Still might she lead her lost one to a tower
Of sure defence against temptation's wiles,
And quell the enchanter curst who now his soul beguiles.
XXXVI
Oh! could she tempt him, by persuasion bland,To join this sober festival to-day,
And see convivial pleasure hand in hand
With peace domestic, chasing grief away,
With sport, and dance, and jocund roundelay—
Or could she ope his sluggish ears to hear
What that good man will in his lecture say—
His better mind might yet unquench'd appear,
And he, from guilt reclaim'd be more than ever dear.
XXXVII
But hark!—the near church clock with sudden strokeProclaims the long expected hour of one,
And straight the tents are throng'd with hungry folk,
And (grace first said) the banquet hath begun:
203
With multifarious garden-stuff combined—
Plum-puddings which no epicure would shun,
With thin potations of the choicest kind—
Furnish a feast at which Apicius might have dined.
XXXVIII
Nor lack we music to regale the ear,And keener relish to our meat impart,
For brethren skill'd in minstrelsy are here,
Each well-prepared, with willing hand and heart,
In instrumental clang to bear his part;—
Clarion and fife and double drum have we,
And hautboy blown with no ignoble art;
Hark! how attuned to blithe triumphant key,
They breathe (what could they less?) the soul of social glee!
XXXIX
Brief is the meal, as Earth's best pleasures are;Few condiments the flagging taste provoke,
No Bacchanalian toasts the banquet mar,
For our unfetterr'd banqueters have broke
The tyrant Custom's arbitrary yoke,
And eat as hunger, drink as thirst impels;
But hark! once more with swift, repeated stroke,
The solemn music of the vesper bells
The hour of public prayer, now fast approaching, tells.
XL
And at the signal, in procession long,Our men in office marshal their array,
With trump and timbrel and low-murmur'd song,
And parti-colour'd streamers bright and gay;
—Brief compass fetch'd—they crowd the queen's highway,—
Aloft the Temperance banners are unroll'd,
And emblems meet and mottoes quaint display,
204
Which well, with quaking hearts, may publicans behold.
XLI
And now, defiling through the churchyard gate.The music hush'd at once, in order due,
Within the church they crowd and congregate;
Well fill'd ere long, I ween, is every pew—
With gazers all, with sneerers not a few:
Meanwhile, the organ's deep, harmonious swell
With notes prelusive gives the choir their cue,
And they the Psalm intone which sings so well
How sweet for brethren 'tis in unity to dwell.
XLII
And soon each heart is wrapt, or seems to be,In solemn worship by our pastor led;—
Well with the occasion by strange chance agree
The lessons in the daily service read;—
“Destroy not him for whom Christ's blood was shed
By meat and drink;—all things indeed are pure;
Yet is it good e'en lawful meat to dread,
Which makes a brother's walking insecure;”
Thus saith St. Paul to day and what he saith is sure.
XLIII
—The prayer concluded and the priest retiredTo doff the surplice and to don the gown,—
Once more the choir, by tuneful zeal inspired,
With choral hymn the solemn service crown;
While rustic voices the full organ drown,
Swelling from aisle and gallery, loud and clear.
That hymn let us, who hearken, here set down,
Albeit, uncouth and rugged it appear,
And all unfit to please a critic's dainty ear.
205
HYMN.
1
God of this fair creation!In whom we live and move;
With hymns of adoration
We own that Thou art love;
Before thine altar kneeling
Thy gracious name we bless
For life, for health, for feeling,
For all Earth's plenteousness.
2
For all that soothes our sorrows,And gives our sickness ease,—
For corn that fills our furrows,
For fruit that bends our trees,—
For wine, its balm diffusing
Through souls by pain opprest,
Which use as not abusing,—
O Lord, thy name be blest!
3
May food which nature needethTo us be daily given,
While still the spirit feedeth
On bread sent down from heaven!
From streams by drought unwasted
May we these draughts obtain,
Which he who once hath tasted
Shall never thirst again!
XLIV
And now, full arm'd for controversial fight,Yet more by mild persuasion bent to win,
Our pastor climbs the pulpit's well-known height,
And (prayer first duly utter'd,) doth begin
206
His theme, repulsive to the public maw;
Nor heeds the sneerer's ill-dissembled grin,
Nor much of fair objectors stands in awe,
So he may fence his cause with Heaven's expounded law.
XLV
Calmly he shows how Christian men should lookEach to his neighbour's welfare as his own;
How Paul himself permitted meat forsook,
Lest brethren's souls thereby might be o'erthrown;
Yet all harsh judgment strictly does disown
Of those who use what God for use hath given;
Deeming, in sooth, small sense or wisdom shown
By those grim zealots of fanatic leaven,
Who fain to all who taste would bar the gates of Heaven.
XLVI
—The sermon ended—from the Church once moreIn proud procession moves the long array;
Some haply not displeased that (service o'er)
They as they list may now keep holiday;
Again drums thunder, and loud trumpets bray,
And now the tented lawn is throng'd apace
With squire and peasant, lord and lady gay,
Plebeian beauty and patrician grace;
Was ne'er such motley crowd beheld in such a place.
XLVII
Within the tents again the festive board,But now with daintier fare, hath been supplied;
Soul-cheering Tea, by fairest fingers pour'd,
And piles of bread and butter, side by side
With cakes which friends with liberal zeal provide;
Around, domestic, happy groups appear,—
Husband and wife, each now the other's pride,
With children to both parents grown more dear;
All former wrongs effaced, all grief forgotten here.
207
XLVIII
Elsewhere athletic youths, with strength adroit,In sports gymnastic sturdily contend;
Some strike the quintain, and some hurl the quoit,
Some, with firm grasp, the slippery rope ascend
'Midst favouring shout and laughter without end;
And round the maypole, with bright garlands hung,
Age, rank and sex, in circling dances blend—
Scholar and clown—the aged and the young;
Meanwhile, in lusty notes, is this blithe chorus sung.
SONG.
1
Come brothers, be hearty! our Teetotal partyShould surely the mirth of the alehouse outvie,
Where sots o'er their liquor grow duller and sicker,
And fools mimick fun with a drop in their eye.
Better pleasures are ours—blue skies and green bowers,
And merry tea-tables set out on the grass;
With sunshine above us, and faces that love us,
The wife with her husband—the lad with his lass.
2
Let blockheads too stupid for Hymen or CupidTo charm with a sweetheart or bless with a spouse,
Their addle-brains muddle with publican's puddle,
And drink themselves dumb in a sulky carouse.
We've daughters and spouses, the joy of our houses,
To share all our pleasures as blithely as we;
In bumpers o'er-brimming, come—health to the women!
And thanks for their company!—drink it in tea!
3
'Tis they who best cheer us, when sorrow comes near us,And would not their absence our revels condemn?
208
Shame, shame on the churl who would feast without them!
The brawls and brute quarrels which flow from beer barrels
We leave to the slave of the bottle and bowl;
No strife shall divide us, while they sit beside us,
To smile on our frolics and yet to control.
4
Let sots in deep swilling who spend their last shilling,Lose food for the belly and clothes for the back;
With coats all in tatters and puddingless platters,
And health gone to ruin and home gone to rack.
So end their carouses;—we've peace in our houses,
Glad smiles to receive us, and family glee;
So a fig for ale-bottles!—let tee-total throttles
Shout Glory for ever to Temperance Tea!
XLIX
But daylight waneth, and our sports must end,For moderation best befits the wise;
Nor would our brethren by excess offend
Foes who malign or friends who patronize;
Anon, at signal sounded, all arise;
Tent, maypole, quintain are deserted straight,
And soon upon the ear the music dies,
Even the last straggler follows through the gate,
And all is silence now, where all was mirth so late.
L
Is all then o'er?—and shall our revel fadeE'en like a dream, and leave no trace behind?
Nay, yet one final effort must be made
To shake the stubborn, fix the wavering mind,
And weak resolve by strengthening pledge to bind.
Lo! where to yonder schoolroom crowds repair
Each on the alert to gain the foremost place,
For one well-known to-night will lecture there;
And now the room is full;—our pastor takes the chair.
209
LI
At first some meaner orators, with speechSimple and rude, the attentive crowd address;
Themselves reclaim'd, would fain their brethren teach
How small indulgence leads to sure excess;
And many a homely tale, as you may guess,
They tell, and many a pungent jest essay,
Mocking each phase of filthy drunkenness,
The alehouse gabble and the tipsy fray,
The pains and sickness dire which topers feel next day.
LII
“Somewhat too much of this—but now 'tis past;”A murmur of impatience, quickly heard,
Dies into silence;—lo! he comes at last,
The speaker to all speakers far preferr'd:—
He rises, but, or ere he speaks a word,
The echoing walls with loud applause are rent;
One cheer has sunk,—a second—then a third
Rise, roar, and fall—till all their breath have spent,
And hang upon his words with eager looks intent.
LIII
A noticeable man is he, with browHigh and projecting, and of broad expanse,
Plough'd, by long thought, in deepening furrows now,
As past life's middle stage his years advance;
From his benign and manly countenance
Intelligence and mild good-humour beam;
Around the room he casts one kindling glance,
And straight, when hush'd and still the hearers seem,
Lets loose his deep-toned voice in full, continuous stream.
LIV
At first, in gentlest phrase, with utterance low,And half, it seems, in earnest, half in jest,
He courts attention both from friend and foe,
And lays unwilling prejudice to rest,
210
His after speech; and now some tale he tells,
Now on some caustic apologue, express'd
With dry, grave humour, for a moment dwells,
Till, roused by its own rush, the soul within him swells.
LV
Anon, in fearful colours, he portraysThe drunkard's headlong course of sin and shame,—
His short and bitter term of evil days,—
His frantic joys unworthy of the name,—
His children beggar'd, or of ruin'd fame—
To guilty deeds by grinding hunger driven,—
Yet he in heart and conduct still the same,—
His every hope long lost in Earth and Heaven,
For how should slave so curst repent and be forgiven?
LVI
In vigorous contrast he exhibits nextThe abstainer's blameless life and blissful lot;
His days of peaceful industry, unvex'd
By guilt or fear,—his clean, well-furnish'd cot,—
The plenteous meal, well dress'd and smoking hot,—
The jocund circle round his evening fire,—
His marriage-vow unstain'd by speck or blot,
But bless'd by mutual love and chaste desire,
And sweet domestic joys too pure to fade or tire.
LVII
Nor ends the contrast with expiring Time;—Eternity's dark veil is rent in twain,
And lo! the direful fruit of sensual crime!
The deep damnation—the immortal pain
In which the drunkard must for aye remain!
The fire unquench'd!—the worm which never dies!
And Heaven discern'd far off distinct and plain,
Throng'd with the spirits of the just, who rise
From death's sepulchral sleep to reign above the skies!
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LVIII
“Now look on these twin pictures, ye who doubt,And choose,” quoth he, “the better while ye may;
Beware lest appetite drive reason out,
Or rash indulgence Heaven's whole bliss betray;
Now, in the sunshine of your mortal day,
By strong resolve the insidious Tempter shun,
Cast from your lips the dangerous cup away,
And half life's battle is already won,
And half its direst troubles ended ere begun.
LIX
“Strong is the magic of our Temperance pledge,The pledge of brethren against evil bound,
Fencing, with an impenetrable hedge,
Each weak and wavering brother round and round;
Sole aid against the spells of Bacchus found,—
Religion's handmaid, Virtue's friend secure,—
Extirpator of vice from British ground,—
Firm aid of all things lovely, good, and pure,—
Heaven's instrument it seems, all social ills to cure.
LX
“Once bound and circled in its mystic chain,The timid become bold, the feeble strong,
The self-indulgent can, thenceforth, refrain
From sinful pleasure, loved and cherish'd long:
Man's tyranny and woman's bitter wrong
Its potent influence quickly doth allay;
And, where 'tis kept, domestic pleasures throng,
And social joyance makes all faces gay;—
Witness the mirthful crowds assembled here to-day!”
LXI
Our festival is o'er;—the crowds disperse,And silence dwells in the deserted room;
A few remain, who from the avenging curse,
And all the dreadful depths of guilt and gloom,
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Would, in that vaunted pledge, safe shelter find.
For such let Earth's least fading garlands bloom,—
Love, joy, and peace, from sensual dross refined;—
And theirs be vigorous health of body and of mind!
LXII
Nor need our pastor grieve with vain regret,Tho' he no more the inspiring glass should drain,
His throat no more with port or sherry wet,—
No more his lips, at costlier tables, stain
With ruddy claret or the pink champagne:
In sooth, such draughts were never sweet to him;
Better he loves the juice of British grain—
The porter, foaming o'er the tankard's brim—
The ale, whose dazzling gleam makes e'en the topaz dim.
LXIII
Nor thankless he, of old, for cyder press'dFrom the rich growth of Worcester's fruitful shire;
Nor scorn'd on Sunday evenings, when at rest
From pulpit toils (for pulpit toils will tire)
With wine and egg, commingled o'er the fire,
His drooping strength and spirits to restore,—
Well pleased to think the body might require
Such aid;—these thoughts are, for the present, o'er,
And he, on thinnest drinks, grows lustier than before.
LXIV
And if, ere long, by sore experience taught,That which he now upholds he must oppose,
'Twill yet to him be no unpleasant thought,
That vice and he were here, as ever, foes.
But, for the present, thus our song we close,—
For hark! the urn is hissing, and the tea
In fragrant streams for our regalement flows,—
While Fanny's voice, in clear, melodious key,
Warbles prelusive strains of choicest minstrelsy.
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