Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver By William Thom. Edited, with a Biographical Sketch, by W. Skinner |
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THE DRUNKARD'S DREAM. |
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 | Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver |  |
THE DRUNKARD'S DREAM.
“Who hath woe? Who hath sorrows? They that tarry long at the wine.”
Proverbs xxiii, 29, 30.
Oh, tempt me not to the drunkard's draught,
With its soul-consuming gleam!
Oh, hide me from the woes that waft
Around the drunkard's dream!
With its soul-consuming gleam!
Oh, hide me from the woes that waft
Around the drunkard's dream!
52
When night in holy silence brings
The God-willed hour of sleep,
Then, then the red-eyed revel swings
Its bowl of poison deep!
The God-willed hour of sleep,
Then, then the red-eyed revel swings
Its bowl of poison deep!
When morning waves its golden hair,
And smiles o'er hill and lea,
One sick'ning ray is doomed to glare
On yon rude revelry!
And smiles o'er hill and lea,
One sick'ning ray is doomed to glare
On yon rude revelry!
The rocket's flary moment sped,
Sinks black'ning back to earth;
Yet darker—deeper sinks his head
Who shares the drunkard's mirth!
Sinks black'ning back to earth;
Yet darker—deeper sinks his head
Who shares the drunkard's mirth!
Know ye the sleep the drunkard knows?
That sleep, oh, who may tell?
Or who can speak the fiendful throes
Of his self-heated hell?
That sleep, oh, who may tell?
Or who can speak the fiendful throes
Of his self-heated hell?
The soul all reft of heav'nly mark—
Defaced God's image there—
Rolls down and down yon abyss dark,
Thy howling home, Despair!
Defaced God's image there—
Rolls down and down yon abyss dark,
Thy howling home, Despair!
Or bedded his head on broken hearts,
Where slimy reptiles creep;
And the ball-less eye of Death still darts
Black fire on the drunkard's sleep!
Where slimy reptiles creep;
And the ball-less eye of Death still darts
Black fire on the drunkard's sleep!
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And lo! their coffin'd bosoms rife,
That bled in his ruin wild!
The cold, cold lips of his shrouded wife,
Press lips of his shrouded child!
That bled in his ruin wild!
The cold, cold lips of his shrouded wife,
Press lips of his shrouded child!
So fast—so deep the hold they kept!
Hark! that unhallow'd scream;
Guard us, oh God! from the drunkard's sleep—
From the drunkard's demon-dream!
Hark! that unhallow'd scream;
Guard us, oh God! from the drunkard's sleep—
From the drunkard's demon-dream!
| Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver | |