 | The Poetical Works of Eliza Cook |  |
WATER.
Wine, wine, thy power and praise
Have ever been echoed in minstrel lays;
But Water, I deem, hath a mightier claim
To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame.
Ye who are bred in Anacreon's school
May sneer at my strain, as the song of a fool;
Ye are wise, no doubt, but have yet to learn
How the tongue can cleave, and the veins can burn.
Have ever been echoed in minstrel lays;
But Water, I deem, hath a mightier claim
To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame.
Ye who are bred in Anacreon's school
May sneer at my strain, as the song of a fool;
Ye are wise, no doubt, but have yet to learn
How the tongue can cleave, and the veins can burn.
Should ye ever be one of a fainting band,
With your brow to the sun and your feet to the sand;
I would wager the thing I'm most loth to spare,
That your Bacchanal chorus would never ring there.
Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell
What treasures exist in the cold, deep well;
Sink in despair on the red, parched earth,
And then ye may reckon what Water is worth.
With your brow to the sun and your feet to the sand;
I would wager the thing I'm most loth to spare,
That your Bacchanal chorus would never ring there.
Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell
What treasures exist in the cold, deep well;
Sink in despair on the red, parched earth,
And then ye may reckon what Water is worth.
48
Famine is laying her hand of bone
On the ship becalmed in a torrid zone;
The gnawing of Hunger's worm is past,
But fiery Thirst lives on to the last.
The stoutest one of the gallant crew
Hath a cheek and lips of ghastly hue;
The hot blood stands in each glassy eye;
And, “Water, O God!” is the only cry.
On the ship becalmed in a torrid zone;
The gnawing of Hunger's worm is past,
But fiery Thirst lives on to the last.
The stoutest one of the gallant crew
Hath a cheek and lips of ghastly hue;
The hot blood stands in each glassy eye;
And, “Water, O God!” is the only cry.
There's drought in the land, and the herbage is dead,
No ripple is heard in the streamlet's bed:
The herd's low bleat, and the sick man's pant,
Are mournfully telling the boon we want.
Let Heaven this one rich gift withhold,
How soon we find it is better than gold;
And Water, I say, hath a right to claim
The Minstrel's song, and a tithe of Fame.
No ripple is heard in the streamlet's bed:
The herd's low bleat, and the sick man's pant,
Are mournfully telling the boon we want.
Let Heaven this one rich gift withhold,
How soon we find it is better than gold;
And Water, I say, hath a right to claim
The Minstrel's song, and a tithe of Fame.
| The Poetical Works of Eliza Cook | |