The adopted daughter :: :: University of Virginia Library

I WILL sing, I will sing, till the welkin shall ring,
Of the ruin that's wrought by dread Alcohol's sting;
For I feel in my soul that there lurks in the bowl
A foul demon of evil, that few can control.
And I've seen how he fills human hearts with his ills,
How he slaughters their hopes—how he mangles and kills!
All alone, all alone, a poor widow I've known,
On the cold icy breast of this selfish world thrown;
All alone with her fears, and alone in her tears,
And alone with the grief and the anguish of years:
For a father, a son, and husband had run
A quick race to disgrace, and were slain one by one.
Yes, they drank till they sank where their life was a blank,
Or was worse, was a curse—and now whom could she thank!
Oh! 'twas Brandy and Gin that had won them to sin,
And that scooped out their graves and then hurried them in;
That had burnt their foul stain on the heart and the brain,
And had made all their living far worse than in vain;
That had filled her with gloom, and had stolen the bloom
From her cheek till she seem'd but a form from the tomb.
It were well I could throw into language the woe
That the widow and orphan have suffer'd below;
It would fill you with grief, and your tears would o'erflow,
And you'd turn from the spoiler with loathing, I know,
Could I lift you the veil, could I tell you the tale,
Of the number that slumber in ruin's dark jail;
Could I tell you the woes of all those who repose
Upon pillows of torture, tormented by foes;
And who weep in their sleep, as the huge serpents creep
O'er their breast, as they rest on the brink of some steep.

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It were well I could tell how the demons of hell
Are disturbing their slumber with torturing yell;
And in dreams lift them high, very nigh to the sky,
And then dash them and crush them and leave them to lie
Pale and mangled and bleeding, the foul vultures' prey,
That in screams of delight sing their joy at the sight
Of a prize they may slay, and may feed on by day,
And then leave to the wolves and the owls of the night.
It were well could I sing how the tempter can sting,
How he saddens and maddens the victims that cling
To the bowl, till the soul is beneath his control,
And is laid in the shade long as ages shall roll.
It were well could I bring all the mouldering bones
Of the thousands he's slaughter'd—the tears and the groans;
All the cold cruel murders—the work of his hand,
And the orphans that beg for their bread through the land;
All the hopes that were born but to die at their birth,
And the wretches that roam without home upon earth;—
But I shrink when I think that these lie on the brink
Of the ocean of evils—and are but a link
Of the chain that has bound in its cold cruel coil
Human hearts without number, and made them its spoil.
Oh, but words are too feeble—they feel it—they blush
To describe such a monster, that lives but to crush
With the heel of a tyrant—the heart of a fiend!
That from blood and from slaughter was never yet weaned.
But I turn from the task, and I yield with a sigh,
Yet I pray that the day that will slay him is nigh:
I will lift up my voice with thanksgiving and shout
When I find the foul fiend from the nation cast out!