 | Poems and Essays of a Miscellaneous Character on Subjects of General Interest |  |
156
Temperance Pieces.
NIGHT PHASES OF DRUNKENNESS.
PHASE I.
The midnight hour hath chimed,
The night is wild and cold;
I see a trembling hand
Yon cottage door unfold.
A pale and furrowed face
Peers forth into the storm;
And o'er the threshold leans
A bent and tottering form.
The night is wild and cold;
I see a trembling hand
Yon cottage door unfold.
A pale and furrowed face
Peers forth into the storm;
And o'er the threshold leans
A bent and tottering form.
Her white hair, damp with tears,
Clings to her wasted cheek;
With failing eyes she scans
The street, her son to seek.
His staggering form she sees,
His reeling steps she hears—
Break, widowed heart! How vain
Thy pleading words and tears!
Clings to her wasted cheek;
With failing eyes she scans
The street, her son to seek.
His staggering form she sees,
His reeling steps she hears—
Break, widowed heart! How vain
Thy pleading words and tears!
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PHASE II.
A dark, dismantled room—
A wailing infant's cry—
A little weeping maid
Sings mournful lullaby—
Two baby brothers, pale
With hunger, cold, and fear,
Lie at her feet; while she
Keeps sobbing, “Mother, dear!
A wailing infant's cry—
A little weeping maid
Sings mournful lullaby—
Two baby brothers, pale
With hunger, cold, and fear,
Lie at her feet; while she
Keeps sobbing, “Mother, dear!
“Oh! shall I never see
Thy sweet and mournful face?
Oh! take thy baby home
Unto the blessed place.
No milk, no food have I,
For her and brothers dear;
Father beats us when we cry,
And leaves us nightly here.”
Thy sweet and mournful face?
Oh! take thy baby home
Unto the blessed place.
No milk, no food have I,
For her and brothers dear;
Father beats us when we cry,
And leaves us nightly here.”
PHASE III.
A workman sought his home,
When evening bells had rung—
Dark thoughts o'er brow and heart
Their sullen shadows flung.
A little ragged boy,
With hunger in his eyes,
Cries, “Mother lies in bed
And minds not baby's cries.”
When evening bells had rung—
Dark thoughts o'er brow and heart
Their sullen shadows flung.
A little ragged boy,
With hunger in his eyes,
Cries, “Mother lies in bed
And minds not baby's cries.”
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No light, nor food, nor fire
Is in the wretched room—
To where the inebriate lies
He rushes in the gloom.
He beats the senseless form—
He drags her from the bed
Where, crushed and livid, lies
Her smother'd infant—dead!
Is in the wretched room—
To where the inebriate lies
He rushes in the gloom.
He beats the senseless form—
He drags her from the bed
Where, crushed and livid, lies
Her smother'd infant—dead!
PHASE IV.
A slender, pallid boy,
With hectic on his cheek,
Moved by his mother's tears,
His father goes to seek.
The midnight moon looks down
Upon the wintry street,
And sees the shrinking youth
His ruffian parent meet.
With hectic on his cheek,
Moved by his mother's tears,
His father goes to seek.
The midnight moon looks down
Upon the wintry street,
And sees the shrinking youth
His ruffian parent meet.
With drunken fury blazed
His eyes—with curse and blow
He dashed the feeble boy
Upon the stones below.
His bleeding form they raised—
Sustained his dying head—
But ere the mother's arms
Had clasped him, life was fled!
His eyes—with curse and blow
He dashed the feeble boy
Upon the stones below.
His bleeding form they raised—
Sustained his dying head—
But ere the mother's arms
Had clasped him, life was fled!
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THE THREE GOLDEN BALLS.
Deadlier balls than North or SouthThrow from cannon's blazing mouth,
Everywhere appal my sight—
Three in number—golden, bright.
“All that glitters is not gold.”
“Ah! I could a tale unfold”
Of misery, waste, and want, and sin;
We pass the balls and enter in.
The counter-board seems to my eyes
An altar reared for sacrifice.
My heart would fail, my tongue would falter,
To tell how on this horrid altar
Are offered all that life requires
To feed the ever-burning fires
Of drink, which would, for want of fuel,
At times burn out, did not the cruel
And greedy priest, who serves the altar,
The offerings clutch, and lie, and palter,
And cheat the victim of the dole
With which he means to drown his soul
In hell's hot fountains gushing near—
“Spirits and ales,” dark words of fear;
And so the groaning shelves are laden
With spoils of man, wife, child, and maiden.
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Gloats o'er the offerings and the pelf.
With heart that mourns, and eye that weeps,
I see him store the frowsy heaps
With hand of iron, and heart of stone,
Brow of brass, and feeling none.
Vampire-like, the blood he drains
From the drunkard's burning veins.
The whisky-shop absorbs his cash,
The pawn-shop swallows down the trash
Of household gear and wretched clothing.
Ah! my soul is sick to loathing
Of the sights, and sounds, and crimes,
Of these murder-tainted times,
When a bath of blood has charms,
And power to set a world in arms;
And the bather may be bolder
If a forty-ticket holder.
Here's a man of good connection—
Hang him, give him for dissection.
What makes your wrath so high to mount?
That old man keeps a bank account.
Some journals have inspired a furor
In many minds 'gainst judge and juror.
Would huntsmen cease to lash and growl,
“The many-headed monster's howl
Would die,” and common sense again
Resume the sceptre and the rein.
161
TEMPERANCE WARFARE.
“SOUND TO THE ONSET, THE ONSET, THE ONSET!”
Arouse ye! arouse ye! the foe is at large,
Again and again we must come to the charge.
Oh! hotly pursue, and fearless attack—
The blood of his victims is red on his track.
Again and again we must come to the charge.
Oh! hotly pursue, and fearless attack—
The blood of his victims is red on his track.
Our wives are dishonoured, our children are slain
By thousands—we labour, but often in vain,
For the plundering foe still devours the proceeds,
Till nothing is left us but sorrows and needs.
By thousands—we labour, but often in vain,
For the plundering foe still devours the proceeds,
Till nothing is left us but sorrows and needs.
We must take his strongholds, put his garrisons down,
And pull down his ensigns in village and town;
But this is the victory, most glorious of all,
Exile him for ever from homestead and hall.
And pull down his ensigns in village and town;
But this is the victory, most glorious of all,
Exile him for ever from homestead and hall.
Ye matrons and maidens of Britain, to you
I would speak, as a sister, most faithful and true
To all your best interests. I beg you to hear,
By all you hold sacred, by all you hold dear.
I would speak, as a sister, most faithful and true
To all your best interests. I beg you to hear,
By all you hold sacred, by all you hold dear.
'Tis found—Oh, alas! it should ever be so!—
That many amongst us are leagued with the foe,
Give harbour, and homage, and serve him as slaves,
Till bleeding and stumbling they crawl to their graves.
That many amongst us are leagued with the foe,
Give harbour, and homage, and serve him as slaves,
Till bleeding and stumbling they crawl to their graves.
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And oft with the dear names of mother and wife,
Entrusted by Heaven with the mind and the life
Of your children, a household, to care for and serve,
You pamper the foe while they shiver and starve.
Entrusted by Heaven with the mind and the life
Of your children, a household, to care for and serve,
You pamper the foe while they shiver and starve.
Dear sisters, I would, but I cannot, conceal
The guilt and the folly you often reveal—
Intemperance, and many a fatal neglect,
That ever the progress of mankind must check.
The guilt and the folly you often reveal—
Intemperance, and many a fatal neglect,
That ever the progress of mankind must check.
For who but a mother her dear little girl
Will lovingly teach her the ruin and peril
Of wanton exposure, the dark deeds of shame,
That blot the fair scutcheon of Scotia's fame?
Will lovingly teach her the ruin and peril
Of wanton exposure, the dark deeds of shame,
That blot the fair scutcheon of Scotia's fame?
The many small fripperies—worthless for use—
Your girls delight in, are but an abuse
Of time, and a sorry perversion of taste,
While the needful and useful are running to waste.
Your girls delight in, are but an abuse
Of time, and a sorry perversion of taste,
While the needful and useful are running to waste.
Precious the ruby, and pure is the pearl—
More precious and pure is an innocent girl;
And earth holds no gem of such value and beauty
As a Christian mother devoted to duty.
More precious and pure is an innocent girl;
And earth holds no gem of such value and beauty
As a Christian mother devoted to duty.
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ADDRESS AND WELCOME TO J. B. GOUGH
Welcome! Oh, welcome! in thy course of fame—Through rolling clouds of smoke and lurid flame,
Belched from a hundred murky piles—at last
Thou com'st, and scared Intemperance stands aghast.
To charm the adder deaf, we lack the power—
Thy potent aid we crave, in this the hour
And power of darkness. Wisely thou can'st charm—
Unstop the serpent's ear, his sting disarm;
Cry, cry aloud, and spare not; lift on high
Thy voice of power, till quailing demons fly
Their wonted haunts; extinguish thou and quell,
With waves of eloquence, the fires of hell—
Those fires that scorch the tongue and fire the brain;
That feed Death's engines, linked to Ruin's train,
Dragging the inebriate, lost, through horrors dire,
Till 'neath the grinding wheels the wretch expire!
To red Crimea's corse-encumbered dells,
Where war with sickness, death, and carnage dwells,
All eyes are turned; all ears to hear are strained
Of fierce assault, and 'leaguered fortress gained—
But higher, holier, stern, though bloodless war,
'Gainst foe more terrible than Russia's Czar,
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His forts and towers of strength, raze, raze them quite!
Accept the deepest, dearest thanks of those
Who, sharing not the sin, yet share the woes
And shame incurred by lost degraded ones—
Intemperate fathers, mothers, husbands, sons!
“Who winneth souls is wise”—in God's own might
Go on; thy path shall like the morning light
Wax brighter, till the noon of perfect day
Shall blind, and scorch, and scare the fiend away!
165
ON SEEING THE BODY OF A WOMAN DRAWN FROM THE MONKLAND CANAL
Drifting before the tempter's power,This piteous wreck in horror's hour
On dark perdition's rock was driven!
Let groaning earth and righteous heaven
Sum up the cost, the fearful price,
Intemperance—bloodiest, costliest vice—
Thy victims pay! Dread Alcohol!
No less than body, substance, soul
Thy minions and thy venders crave.
So, dripping from the muddy wave
They drag—but, ah! too late to save
From suicidal drunkard's grave—
A bruised and wasted female form,
Who perished in the deadly storm
Of maddening drink's delirious throes.
Bind up her hair; her eyelids close;
Her body lay beneath the sod—
The soul's award is given by God.
Oh, woman, woman! mother! wife!
The founts whence gush the streams of life
Are thine—why with the accursed thing
Thus poison and pollute the spring
Of human life? Why bear the name—
The drunkard's brand of guilt and shame—
The dire conjunction, ah! too common—
A mother, wife, and drunken woman!
166
LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS H. B. STOWE
Lady, to thee, to fortune, and to fame,
I, all unknown, would yet aspiring claim
A right to love thee, and admire from far
Thy pure and tender light. Benignant star,
Bright in Columbian heavens we see thee rise,
Herald of freedom's dawn in Southern skies.
Far on the dim horizon she appears
Struggling through blood, red clouds bedewed with tears,
The dews of anguish, wrung from hearts and eyes—
Crush'd, blasted, sever'd from all human ties.
Dark exhalations rise her form to shroud,
And wrathful demons glare from every cloud.
In vain shall Slavery's vile Draconian code
Of lawless laws, that flout the laws of God—
Her blood-hounds, scourges, chains—exclude the day.
No; things of darkness, hence! avaunt! away!
I, all unknown, would yet aspiring claim
A right to love thee, and admire from far
Thy pure and tender light. Benignant star,
Bright in Columbian heavens we see thee rise,
Herald of freedom's dawn in Southern skies.
Far on the dim horizon she appears
Struggling through blood, red clouds bedewed with tears,
The dews of anguish, wrung from hearts and eyes—
Crush'd, blasted, sever'd from all human ties.
Dark exhalations rise her form to shroud,
And wrathful demons glare from every cloud.
In vain shall Slavery's vile Draconian code
Of lawless laws, that flout the laws of God—
Her blood-hounds, scourges, chains—exclude the day.
No; things of darkness, hence! avaunt! away!
Day breaks. Aside the murky vapours roll'd,
Mid roseate draperies, rich with orient gold,
Appears the goddess, shouts the applauding world,
The striped and starry flag she holds unfurl'd.
From the proud blazonry wipes out the name—
The curse of slavery and the brand of shame.
Mid roseate draperies, rich with orient gold,
Appears the goddess, shouts the applauding world,
The striped and starry flag she holds unfurl'd.
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The curse of slavery and the brand of shame.
Lady, my land breeds not nor barters slaves,
But she has ruined homes and drunkards' graves.
Here mad Intemperance clanks her Bedlam chain,
And plies her scourge of snakes, shame, ruin, pain—
The fangs of fell remorse, and fierce despair,
Sink in the victim's heart and quiver there.
But she has ruined homes and drunkards' graves.
Here mad Intemperance clanks her Bedlam chain,
And plies her scourge of snakes, shame, ruin, pain—
The fangs of fell remorse, and fierce despair,
Sink in the victim's heart and quiver there.
O gifted lady! from mine island strand
I gaze far sea-ward, wave the beckoning hand.
Thou comest—Oh, welcome guest!—and worthless, I
Shall meet thee—not on earth; our goal's the sky.
I gaze far sea-ward, wave the beckoning hand.
Thou comest—Oh, welcome guest!—and worthless, I
Shall meet thee—not on earth; our goal's the sky.
168
ON THE ANTICIPATED RETURN OF J. B. GOUGH TO BRITAIN.
Ere ancient Thebes began on high to raise
Her crest of towers; ere rose the wondrous maze
Of column'd temples, palaces, and halls,
Of pillar'd porticoes, and pondrous walls,
Far o'er the waste old Amphion's magic lyre
Rung forth wild music to his touch of fire—
Then heaved the rocks, and danced the stones along,
Moved by the mighty spell of glorious song.
High swelled the strain, swift rolled the stony flood,
Till Thebes, upreared, in gorgeous beauty stood.
Her crest of towers; ere rose the wondrous maze
Of column'd temples, palaces, and halls,
Of pillar'd porticoes, and pondrous walls,
Far o'er the waste old Amphion's magic lyre
Rung forth wild music to his touch of fire—
Then heaved the rocks, and danced the stones along,
Moved by the mighty spell of glorious song.
High swelled the strain, swift rolled the stony flood,
Till Thebes, upreared, in gorgeous beauty stood.
No fabled lyrist—Gough, in thee we find
Thy tuneful eloquence, thy wealth of mind,
Thy words of power, and melody of tone,
Can move the will and draw the heart of stone,
Can startle, thrill, inspire, and arm the soul
With power to abjure for aye the madd'ning bowl.
So, from the fearful pit and miry clay,
Where cold, insensate inebriates lay,
They shake, they move, they come, and tower and wall,
Palace and temple, dome and pillared hall,
In order rise beneath thy skilful hand,
Wise master-builder, moral structures grand,
On temperance based, amidst the desert smile,
The beauty, strength, and safety of our isle.
Again return. Ah! many a change has passed
Since from our island shores thou parted last—
Ten thousand welcomes wait on thy return.
Then come “with thoughts that breathe and words that burn”—
Entreat, appeal, and warn—thrill brain and heart;
While bosoms heave and tears spontaneous start.
The sense, the feeling, and the ear enchain,
And earth, yea heaven, shall prove thy words not vain.
Thy tuneful eloquence, thy wealth of mind,
Thy words of power, and melody of tone,
Can move the will and draw the heart of stone,
Can startle, thrill, inspire, and arm the soul
With power to abjure for aye the madd'ning bowl.
So, from the fearful pit and miry clay,
Where cold, insensate inebriates lay,
They shake, they move, they come, and tower and wall,
Palace and temple, dome and pillared hall,
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Wise master-builder, moral structures grand,
On temperance based, amidst the desert smile,
The beauty, strength, and safety of our isle.
Again return. Ah! many a change has passed
Since from our island shores thou parted last—
Ten thousand welcomes wait on thy return.
Then come “with thoughts that breathe and words that burn”—
Entreat, appeal, and warn—thrill brain and heart;
While bosoms heave and tears spontaneous start.
The sense, the feeling, and the ear enchain,
And earth, yea heaven, shall prove thy words not vain.
170
LINES
What's a' the din? is Jonathan gane gyte?What ails the fallow, that he'll growl an' flyte,
An' shake his neive across the wide Atlantic,
Wi' glunchin' broo, an' mony a senseless antic?
Ne'er fash your thoom wi' us, my Yankee billy—
Thae blusterin' havers mak' ye unco silly;
Tak' tent, my man, ye're needfu' o' a skelpin',
For, gudeness kens, ye're never o'er the yelpin'.
Steek up your gab, ye wild, camstrarie laddie,
Nae mair yaff yaffin' at your British daddie;
I think ye micht hae ither tow tae tease,
When baith the North and South are in a bleeze.
A fleesome sight, atweel, tae a' the warl'—
Wi' friens that wish ye weel ye soudna quarrel—
For Britain, frae her cozie islan' dwallin',
Will naither mak' nor meddle wi' ye, callan.
Ye're no that unco steive in limb an' lith;
Ye're scrimpit baith in courage, sense, an' pith;
Langsyne ye gat yer legs out o'er the harrows,
Sin'syne ye think ye hae nae mony marrows.
But len' yer lugs, and dinna bounce and bark—
Ye needna tear your hair nor rive your sark—
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They'd gart ye keep your place an' cou't your pride.
Your sangs o' liberty are bosh an' tee-dum;
It wad be better baith for you an' freedom
If ye had ne'er cut up the auld connection,
Nor snool't tae democratic mob direction.
Ye'll ne'er hae peace until ye get a king—
A coup d' etat for you's the vera thing;
There's Nap. the Third, wha whamel't bluidy France,
An' hauds her doon—had ane like him the chance,
He'd grip the reins, wi' bit an' bridle haud ye,
An' should ye rear or kick, he'd whip an' daud ye.
An' gif ye maun be sodgers, he will learn ye—
But ye'll needs dae his biddin', min' I warn ye;
For fock that canna guide nor rule themsel',
Should hae a ruler strong, an' stern, an' snell.
172
THE MOURNING MOTHER.
What woe is thine, pale mother?—say
What grief devours thy heart? For aye
Thy looks averted shun the day,
And midnight sees thee watch and pray
With sighing, quivering breath.
The hand of wedded love to clasp—
To feel true friendship's fervent grasp
Is thine. Why, then, with sob and gasp
Still heaves thy heart, as sting of asp
Had struck the pang of death?
What grief devours thy heart? For aye
Thy looks averted shun the day,
And midnight sees thee watch and pray
With sighing, quivering breath.
The hand of wedded love to clasp—
To feel true friendship's fervent grasp
Is thine. Why, then, with sob and gasp
Still heaves thy heart, as sting of asp
Had struck the pang of death?
“Oh, lost! lost! lost!—the loved, the young
On dark perdition's torrent flung—
With maddened brain and hearts unstrung
O'er deepest gulf of ruin swung,
And I—I cannot save!
O! minstrel King, thy soul-wrung cry
Draws from my heart a deep reply—
My sons, my sons! each burdened sigh
My sons, my sons! breathes to the sky—
My God, thy help I crave!
On dark perdition's torrent flung—
With maddened brain and hearts unstrung
O'er deepest gulf of ruin swung,
And I—I cannot save!
O! minstrel King, thy soul-wrung cry
Draws from my heart a deep reply—
My sons, my sons! each burdened sigh
My sons, my sons! breathes to the sky—
My God, thy help I crave!
“My gentle boys—obedient, fond—
How oft around my knees ye conned
The Book which taught all names beyond
His name to bless whose blood atoned
For guilt of fallen man!
How blessed the time when work and play
Alternate shared the hours of day!
Till pillowed cheek to cheek ye lay,
And mother o'er you stooped to pray,
As only mother can.”
How oft around my knees ye conned
The Book which taught all names beyond
His name to bless whose blood atoned
For guilt of fallen man!
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Alternate shared the hours of day!
Till pillowed cheek to cheek ye lay,
And mother o'er you stooped to pray,
As only mother can.”
But, ah! on clouds of grief and shame,
To this dear home a demon came—
The undying worm, the quenchless flame
Are thine, Intemperance; at the name
The lesser fiends rejoice.
Well hath the dark-souled poet said—
“More sad than wail above the dead
Are words by living sorrow fed:”
Such breathe o'er lost inebriate's head
From mourning mother's voice.
To this dear home a demon came—
The undying worm, the quenchless flame
Are thine, Intemperance; at the name
The lesser fiends rejoice.
Well hath the dark-souled poet said—
“More sad than wail above the dead
Are words by living sorrow fed:”
Such breathe o'er lost inebriate's head
From mourning mother's voice.
The song, the dance, the wanton's love,
May fail the young desires to move;
But fiercer ordeal they must prove,
Launched on the world, who rise above
The tempter's proffer'd cup.
They fell, for guileless youth what hope?
Urged, bantered, drawn, nay, forced to cope
With senior mates in yard or shop:
Workmen, these human offerings stop
To Moloch offered up.
May fail the young desires to move;
But fiercer ordeal they must prove,
Launched on the world, who rise above
The tempter's proffer'd cup.
They fell, for guileless youth what hope?
Urged, bantered, drawn, nay, forced to cope
With senior mates in yard or shop:
Workmen, these human offerings stop
To Moloch offered up.
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THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE.
O Jeanie, my woman! whar is't ye are gaun,
Wi' a bairn on yer arm an' ane in yer haun?
There's snaw on the grun, an' nae shoon on yer feet,
And ye speak na a word, but jist murther an' greet.
Wi' a bairn on yer arm an' ane in yer haun?
There's snaw on the grun, an' nae shoon on yer feet,
And ye speak na a word, but jist murther an' greet.
Yer ae drogget coat is baith scrimpy an' worn,
An' yer aul leloc toush is baith dirty an' torn;
An' roun' yer lean haffits, ance sonsy and fair,
Hings tautit an' tousie yer bonny broun hair.
An' yer aul leloc toush is baith dirty an' torn;
An' roun' yer lean haffits, ance sonsy and fair,
Hings tautit an' tousie yer bonny broun hair.
Yer wee shilpit weanie's a pityfu' prufe
That yer bosom's as dry an' as queem as my lufe;
For the bairn wi' the beard sooks ye sairest alace,
For he draws the red bluid frae yer hert an' yer face.
That yer bosom's as dry an' as queem as my lufe;
For the bairn wi' the beard sooks ye sairest alace,
For he draws the red bluid frae yer hert an' yer face.
Waesucks for ye, Jeanie! I kent ye fu' weel
When a lass; ye war couthie, an' cantie', an' leal:
Wi' cheeks like the roses, yer bonnie blue ee,
Aye glancin' an' dancin' wi' daffin an' glee.
When a lass; ye war couthie, an' cantie', an' leal:
Wi' cheeks like the roses, yer bonnie blue ee,
Aye glancin' an' dancin' wi' daffin an' glee.
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They tauld ye that Davie was keen o' the drink,
That siller ne'er baid in his pouches a blink;
An' a' he got claut o' he waret on the dram,
An' ae pay ne'er sert till anither ane cam.
That siller ne'er baid in his pouches a blink;
An' a' he got claut o' he waret on the dram,
An' ae pay ne'er sert till anither ane cam.
But ye wadna be warnt, sae yer wierd ye maun dree,
Tho' aften ye raither wad lie doun an' dee;
For o' puir drucken Davie ye've nae houp ava,
Sae yer greetin', an' toilin', an' fechtin' awa.
Tho' aften ye raither wad lie doun an' dee;
For o' puir drucken Davie ye've nae houp ava,
Sae yer greetin', an' toilin', an' fechtin' awa.
176
LINES
Were thousand angels, sinless, bright,
With folded wings, and robes of light,
With flowing locks and glorious eyes,
To walk our streets—with what surprise
And awe-struck wonder we would gaze,
And ask each other in amaze,
Why to our sinful earth was given
To bear the denizens of heaven!
With folded wings, and robes of light,
With flowing locks and glorious eyes,
To walk our streets—with what surprise
And awe-struck wonder we would gaze,
And ask each other in amaze,
Why to our sinful earth was given
To bear the denizens of heaven!
No angel band to-day, I ween,
Upon our village street was seen;
But thousand spirits, young and fresh,
Wrapt in the veil of mortal flesh.
That veil on earth the Saviour wore;
In heaven He wears it evermore;
He took not angel nature on—
Your nature, dear ones, yours alone.
Upon our village street was seen;
But thousand spirits, young and fresh,
Wrapt in the veil of mortal flesh.
That veil on earth the Saviour wore;
In heaven He wears it evermore;
He took not angel nature on—
Your nature, dear ones, yours alone.
I gaze on thousand childish forms;
The veil they wear is food for worms;
If saved from sin, the spirit springs,
When drops the veil, on brighter wings,
In whiter robes than angel wears,
Washed in the Saviour's blood and tears.
The veil they wear is food for worms;
If saved from sin, the spirit springs,
When drops the veil, on brighter wings,
In whiter robes than angel wears,
Washed in the Saviour's blood and tears.
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Dear children, 'twas with moistened eye
I saw you pass my window by;
I marked your gambols on the grass,
And, sighing, said, “Alas! alas!
What tongue may tell, what heart can know,
The heirs of bliss, the heirs of woe,
That mingle in the joyous throng,
That wake the woods with dance and song!”
To us the gracious words were given,
“Of such the kingdom is of heaven.”
Yet none who live and die in sin
That kingdom e'er shall enter in.
Then love your teachers; love your school;
Be subject to your parents' rule;
Be grateful for the loving care
That gave you all these joys to share.
Be love's sweet law your rule alone,
Like Him who took your nature on.
I saw you pass my window by;
I marked your gambols on the grass,
And, sighing, said, “Alas! alas!
What tongue may tell, what heart can know,
The heirs of bliss, the heirs of woe,
That mingle in the joyous throng,
That wake the woods with dance and song!”
To us the gracious words were given,
“Of such the kingdom is of heaven.”
Yet none who live and die in sin
That kingdom e'er shall enter in.
Then love your teachers; love your school;
Be subject to your parents' rule;
Be grateful for the loving care
That gave you all these joys to share.
Be love's sweet law your rule alone,
Like Him who took your nature on.
178
THE HAUNTED HOUSE.
The Haunted House in days of yore
Stood lone, deserted, ruined, hoar,
With dusty panes, and moss-grown sill,
With grass-grown steps, rooms dark and chill,
Where, while the wailing night winds moaned,
Pale shrouded spectres shrieked and groaned;
And nightly, winged with wild affright,
The trembling youth in rapid flight
Would pass the spot, nor look behind,
For fearful sounds were on the wind,
Nor paused till on the hearth he stood
Amidst the dear fraternal brood.
Stood lone, deserted, ruined, hoar,
With dusty panes, and moss-grown sill,
With grass-grown steps, rooms dark and chill,
Where, while the wailing night winds moaned,
Pale shrouded spectres shrieked and groaned;
And nightly, winged with wild affright,
The trembling youth in rapid flight
Would pass the spot, nor look behind,
For fearful sounds were on the wind,
Nor paused till on the hearth he stood
Amidst the dear fraternal brood.
The Haunted House!—how vast the change
In modern times! A goodly range
Of painted casements gaily shine
With glittering panes; large crystalline
And rich cut goblets brimming high—
Where troops of fiends in ambush lie,
Prompt to obey that potent charm—
The screw-propelling waiter's arm.
And, hark! through rooms gay, throng'd, and bright
Sound festal strains and laughter light,
And tinkling bells and dancing feet
Shall trip the time to music sweet.
In modern times! A goodly range
Of painted casements gaily shine
With glittering panes; large crystalline
And rich cut goblets brimming high—
Where troops of fiends in ambush lie,
Prompt to obey that potent charm—
The screw-propelling waiter's arm.
And, hark! through rooms gay, throng'd, and bright
Sound festal strains and laughter light,
And tinkling bells and dancing feet
Shall trip the time to music sweet.
179
Ah, simple youth! beware, beware!
Cross not that threshold snowy fair,
With varnished door for ever ope—
Within the ghosts of murdered hope
Of wedded duties, filial claims,
Of high resolves and noble aims,
Of health and fame, of time and peace,
With wail and plaint that will not cease,
For ever, when dark midnight falls,
Stalk through the rooms, glide round the walls;
While warning voices mournful swell
Upon the wind with dirge-like knell:
Pass, thoughtless youth! 'twere death to stay,
Avoid, turn from it, haste away!
Cross not that threshold snowy fair,
With varnished door for ever ope—
Within the ghosts of murdered hope
Of wedded duties, filial claims,
Of high resolves and noble aims,
Of health and fame, of time and peace,
With wail and plaint that will not cease,
For ever, when dark midnight falls,
Stalk through the rooms, glide round the walls;
While warning voices mournful swell
Upon the wind with dirge-like knell:
Pass, thoughtless youth! 'twere death to stay,
Avoid, turn from it, haste away!
180
ON SEEING THE DEAD BODY OF A MAN
'Twas night; I stood on yonder fir-crown'd height
And look'd on flaming furnace, forge, and mine;
The black-brow'd clouds with lurid fires were bright,
That flashed o'er road, canal, and railway line.
And look'd on flaming furnace, forge, and mine;
The black-brow'd clouds with lurid fires were bright,
That flashed o'er road, canal, and railway line.
One hour to midnight—Sabbath morn drew near
Mid sights and sounds, “might make even angels weep;”
No prayers, save those for liquor, reach'd my ear;
No sounds, save oaths profane and curses deep.
Mid sights and sounds, “might make even angels weep;”
No prayers, save those for liquor, reach'd my ear;
No sounds, save oaths profane and curses deep.
From chambers rank with vile and stifling fumes,
From tables full of vomit, staggering home
Comes one who still on past escapes presumes
To reach that home where he no more shall come.
From tables full of vomit, staggering home
Comes one who still on past escapes presumes
To reach that home where he no more shall come.
Down the lone bank, blaspheming as he goes,
Along the margin of the sluggish wave
That bears the treasures of the mine, and flows
An ever-open, frequent, drunkard's grave.
Along the margin of the sluggish wave
That bears the treasures of the mine, and flows
An ever-open, frequent, drunkard's grave.
181
Unseen, unheard, the plunge, the drowning strife,
The gasping agony, the gurgling cry
That o'er the waters rung the knell of life,
While echoes of the woods alone reply.
The gasping agony, the gurgling cry
That o'er the waters rung the knell of life,
While echoes of the woods alone reply.
Fair dawn'd that April Sabbath morn; the voice
Of joyous birds awoke on every bough,
The woods, the shining waters, all rejoice—
But where? O lost inebriate! where art thou?
Of joyous birds awoke on every bough,
The woods, the shining waters, all rejoice—
But where? O lost inebriate! where art thou?
Lo! where the dancing ripples wave his hair,
Erect against the slope his body stands;
His wide fixed eyes and death-pale brow are bare,
And fill'd with grass and clay his clenched hands.
Erect against the slope his body stands;
His wide fixed eyes and death-pale brow are bare,
And fill'd with grass and clay his clenched hands.
A thousand times his reeling steps had trode
The fatal path, and still escaped the doom
That sent him unprepared to meet his God,
And to a lone, unwept, unhonour'd tomb.
The fatal path, and still escaped the doom
That sent him unprepared to meet his God,
And to a lone, unwept, unhonour'd tomb.
182
THE CONTRAST.
See yonder wretched little girl,
Braving cold, and want, and peril,
Wandering through the frozen street,
Seeking her she fears to meet;
Matted locks hang round her ears,
From her wild eyes rain the tears;
In her arms a squalid child,
Wrapt in rags all torn and soil'd,
Clinging to her shivering breast—
Young bird cast from rifled nest.
Now the mother's form she sees,
Drooping head and tottering knees,
Babbling tongue and idiot stare,
Ah! too well her state declare.
“Mother! mother! father's come;
Haste! Oh haste! he waits at home!”
Ay! he waits for her returning,
Wrath and hate within him burning.
Oh! that home, how desolate!
Bare the walls, and cold the grate;
Empty cupboard, naked bed,
Health and peace and comfort fled!
Hark, those sounds! your ears they tingle!
Blows and shrieks and curses mingle—
Words of passion, fierce and wild.
Weeping girl and screaming child,
While the shades of evening close,
Cowering, sobbing, seek repose;
Couched on straw, the group, forlorn,
Wait the miseries of the morn.
God! I pray, with heart high swelling,
Mercy on the drunkard's dwelling.
Braving cold, and want, and peril,
Wandering through the frozen street,
Seeking her she fears to meet;
Matted locks hang round her ears,
From her wild eyes rain the tears;
In her arms a squalid child,
Wrapt in rags all torn and soil'd,
Clinging to her shivering breast—
Young bird cast from rifled nest.
Now the mother's form she sees,
Drooping head and tottering knees,
Babbling tongue and idiot stare,
Ah! too well her state declare.
“Mother! mother! father's come;
Haste! Oh haste! he waits at home!”
Ay! he waits for her returning,
Wrath and hate within him burning.
Oh! that home, how desolate!
Bare the walls, and cold the grate;
Empty cupboard, naked bed,
Health and peace and comfort fled!
183
Blows and shrieks and curses mingle—
Words of passion, fierce and wild.
Weeping girl and screaming child,
While the shades of evening close,
Cowering, sobbing, seek repose;
Couched on straw, the group, forlorn,
Wait the miseries of the morn.
God! I pray, with heart high swelling,
Mercy on the drunkard's dwelling.
See that playful, laughing girl,
Lips of rose, and teeth of pearl,
Brow unwrinkled by a frown.
Waving locks of golden brown,
Shading soft her azure eyes,
Dimpled cheeks, whose hue outvies
Rose-bud wild, I hear her singing—
O'er the mead her wild flight winging—
Weaving 'neath the willow bushes
Coronets of fragrant rushes.
Mother at the cottage door—
Gazing the fair landscape o'er—
Sees on homeward path advancing,
Her wee daughter skipping, dancing,
Fill'd her lap, and hands, and bosom
With flowery blooms and hawthorn blossom.
Look within; how clean and neat!
The fire is bright, the tea is set;
The father lifts his eyes to heaven,
And asks on all its bounties given,
God's blessing. Now the blooms and roses
Are laid aside; the evening closes—
The blinds are drawn—fast closed the door—
And now, upon the cottage floor,
That lovely, lowly group are kneeling
In fervent prayer, to Heaven appealing;
And while their hymn of praise is swelling,
We'll pray, “God bless the temperance dwelling.”
Lips of rose, and teeth of pearl,
Brow unwrinkled by a frown.
Waving locks of golden brown,
Shading soft her azure eyes,
Dimpled cheeks, whose hue outvies
Rose-bud wild, I hear her singing—
O'er the mead her wild flight winging—
Weaving 'neath the willow bushes
Coronets of fragrant rushes.
Mother at the cottage door—
Gazing the fair landscape o'er—
Sees on homeward path advancing,
Her wee daughter skipping, dancing,
Fill'd her lap, and hands, and bosom
With flowery blooms and hawthorn blossom.
Look within; how clean and neat!
The fire is bright, the tea is set;
184
And asks on all its bounties given,
God's blessing. Now the blooms and roses
Are laid aside; the evening closes—
The blinds are drawn—fast closed the door—
And now, upon the cottage floor,
That lovely, lowly group are kneeling
In fervent prayer, to Heaven appealing;
And while their hymn of praise is swelling,
We'll pray, “God bless the temperance dwelling.”
185
THE PLAGUE OF OUR ISLE.
It is said, it is sung, it is written, and read,
It sounds in the ear, and it swims in the head,
It booms in the air, it is borne o'er the sea—
“There's a good time coming,” but when shall it be?
It sounds in the ear, and it swims in the head,
It booms in the air, it is borne o'er the sea—
“There's a good time coming,” but when shall it be?
Shall it be when Intemperance, enthroned on the waves
Of a dark sea of ruin, is scooping the graves
Of thousands, while redly the dark current rolls
With the blood of her victims—the slaughter of souls?
Of a dark sea of ruin, is scooping the graves
Of thousands, while redly the dark current rolls
With the blood of her victims—the slaughter of souls?
A canker is found in the bud, flower, and fruit
Of human progression—a worm at the root
Of social improvement—a fiery simoom
That sweeps o'er the masses to burn and consume.
Of human progression—a worm at the root
Of social improvement—a fiery simoom
That sweeps o'er the masses to burn and consume.
'Tis found on the heaven-hallow'd day of repose—
Blest haven of rest from our toils and our woes!—
That voice of the drunkard, the oath, curse, and brawl,
Are sounds of such frequence, they cease to appal.
Blest haven of rest from our toils and our woes!—
That voice of the drunkard, the oath, curse, and brawl,
Are sounds of such frequence, they cease to appal.
We see the grey father, the youth in his prime,
Throw soul, sense, and feeling, health, substance, and time,
In the cup of the drunkard—the mother and wife
Hugs the snake in her bosom that 'venoms her life.
Throw soul, sense, and feeling, health, substance, and time,
In the cup of the drunkard—the mother and wife
Hugs the snake in her bosom that 'venoms her life.
186
We see the gaunt infant, so feeble and pale,
Crave nature's sweet fluid from fountains that fail;
Or run with hot poison, distill'd from the breast
Of the mother—O monstrous!—a drunkard, a pest!
Crave nature's sweet fluid from fountains that fail;
Or run with hot poison, distill'd from the breast
Of the mother—O monstrous!—a drunkard, a pest!
We've seen, with her bright hair all clotted with blood,
Lie cold on the hearth—where at morning she stood
The wife of a summer—a babe on her breast—
The husband a drunkard—let death tell the rest.
Lie cold on the hearth—where at morning she stood
The wife of a summer—a babe on her breast—
The husband a drunkard—let death tell the rest.
And darker and deeper the horrors that shroud
The brain of the drunkard; what dark phantoms crowd
“The cells of his fancy,” his couch of despair
Is empty—the suicide slumbers not there!
The brain of the drunkard; what dark phantoms crowd
“The cells of his fancy,” his couch of despair
Is empty—the suicide slumbers not there!
O why do we seek, do we hope to bestow
“The colours of heaven on the dwellings of woe?”
'Tis temperance must level the strongholds of crime—
'Tis temperance must herald the “coming good time.”
“The colours of heaven on the dwellings of woe?”
'Tis temperance must level the strongholds of crime—
'Tis temperance must herald the “coming good time.”
Then, turn ye! Oh, turn ye! for why will ye die?
Ye shrink from the plague when its advent is nigh—
The Indian pestilence, the plague of old Nile—
Less deadly by far than the Plague of our Isle!
Ye shrink from the plague when its advent is nigh—
The Indian pestilence, the plague of old Nile—
Less deadly by far than the Plague of our Isle!
| Poems and Essays of a Miscellaneous Character on Subjects of General Interest | |