"Whatever step I take, and into whatever direction I may strike, the drink-demon starts up before me and blocks my way."-M. HILI.
I TURNED me to the house of prayer,
Nor thought to meet the demon there-
But as I musing onward trode,
I met him staggering on the road,
In semblance of some beastly creatures,
With blood-shot eyes and bloted features,
Who revel held the live-long night,
Till now the Sabbath sun shone bright.
I stood beside an open grave;
The demon here no power can have.
The coffin lowered, the grave filled up,
The mourners crave a friendly cup
Their griefs to soothe and spirits cheer.
Oh! draw the veil and drop the tear
O'er scenes on which the demon smiles,
When they have fallen by his wiles.
I turned me to the police cells-
The demon's voice there ever swells
Through every passage, cell, and chink
And echo ever answers "Drink!"
corpse is borne in at the doorHe died in drink; and on the floor,
Dead drunk, some ghastly wretches lie,
Unfit to live, but, ah! to die!
I turned to where the parish dole
Is monthly dealt-too oft the sole
Resource of widow'd age and want-
Yet on this pittance, stinted, scant,
I've known upon this piteous dole
The demon levy tax and toll;
By him from Want's lean fingers torn,
Though shivering, starving, and forlorn!
Turn ye to furnace, forge and mine;
Turn to canal and railway line,
Where wheels revolve and hammers clink,
And, lo! up starts the demon Drink.
The joiner's bench, the mason's shed,
The place of dough and smoking bread,
The tailor's board, the Crispin's stool-
All, all proclaim the demon's rule!
POUR ye a wail of the wildest
E'er wrung from a worn heart and mind! Tears and entreaties the mildest
Are blown like the chaff on the wind! Speak through a trumpet of thunder, The drunkard is deaf to the call; Words of deep sorrow and wonder, Unheeded, uncared for, may fall!
Woe for the heart-stricken mother,
Sinking in terror and shame
From scenes that she vainly would smother-
The curse of her house and her name!
Woe to the grey, stooping father—
The blossoms of love and of trust,
He hoped of his children to gather,
Are withered and gone up like dust!
Woe for the drunkard-all feelings
Of manhood and duty are gone!
List to his horrid revealings,
When reason lies drowned on her throne!
Horrors, deep, direful, are rushing
Through the dark 'wildered cells of his brain; Despair fiercely rending and crushing
Each nerve and each hot throbbing vein!
Woe to the fiend-haunted dwelling
Where the demon of drink hath abode !
No psalm, even or morning, is swelling,
But curses of man and of God!
His heaven and his hell are in drinking;
'Tis bliss when his raging desires
He is glutting; his hell is in thinking,
Sublimed in Eternity's fires!
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?
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?
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.
'Tis found on the heaven-hallow'd day of reposeBlest 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.
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