Temperance Poem

     As hissing serpents, an infernal brood,
Sprung up where fell the fabled Gorgons' blood, 
So in the human heart foul passions rose 
Where'er Intemperance pour'd her cup of woes, 
The pride of earth went down to shades of death, 
Smote by the blasting of her samiel breath, 
And one by one as wave succeeds to wave 
Men sunk unwarned into their hopeless grave.
The wasted earth confessed the spirit's sway, 
And seem'd almost to mourn her own decay ;
Her gifts that once the harvest bounties swell'd, 
Basely perverted, she from man withheld, 
And from her plains laid waste by ruin's cup, 
A voice of mourning, and of grief sent up.

     Lo yonder fields where once an Eden bloomed, 
By foul intemperance to destruction doomed, 
The summer sun sees there no fair herds graze, 
Nor warms to life the early sprouting maize;
Its autumn beams their grateful influence yield
Yet ripen there no greenly waving field, 
But thorns and brambles o'er the plains are grown,
And all the shattered walls are broken down.

     There stands the lonely cot, where once in glee
Sported the rosy children, wild and free,
Gay as the linnet, lovely as the morn,
While loud their shoutings on the air was borne,
The generous father, when his task was done
With silent pleasure viewed each prattling one.
A smiling bride and blooming children round,
Oh, where could greater joys on earth be found?
But sorrow came—false Pleasure gave the cup,
And that blessed father drank its venom up;
Friends gather’d there—the deadly draught was pour’d
To crown the bounties of his plenteous board,
And in his children’s bosoms to inspire
A grateful love for an indulgent sire,
He poured to them its slow consuming fire.
Oh! cruel favor, kindness how unkind
For those loved ones!—blind leader of the blind!
What bitter hours of deep un ending woe, 
From that unbless'd, unblessing cup shall flow!
What ruin waste--what tears on earth will pour, 
And Oh! what groans shall rise for evermore!

     Soon saw that Sire, this sad and mournful truth;
His sons scarce past the bloom of early south, 
Sunk one by one into the drunkard's tomb, 
And, their lost souls-trace not their fearful doom.

     There stands the cot, and through its shattered walls
Sighs the cold wind and sweeps its voiceless halls, 
The windows from each broken pane display 
The tattered remnants of some better day.
At one quick glance the outward ruin tells, 
Of the deep wretchedness within that dwells.
There bends alone that sorrow-wasted Sire,
Shivering in rags above the failing fire.
All rest, all joy, all hope has flown away, 
And the crush'd soul is quench'd within its clay.

     This is no pictured vision of romance, 
For thus fall thousands by Intemperance.

     Ye whose strong hands are nerved to manly toil
To guide the plough and till the generous soil, 
Whose wealth embosomed in the dusty plain, 
The hands of industry alone can gain.
Gaze on the scene--on him whose deathless soul
Has bowed its pride to Ruin's stern control, 
And gazing, ask if heaven has bless'd the mad'ning bowl.
Comes thence the power that nerves your sinewy hands,
To break the sod and till the rock-girt lands?
Or when the rich autumnal fields are brown, 
Will rum give strength to reap your harvest down?
Will the bright fields put on a greener hue, 
And richer harvest greet your grateful view?
Will fairer herds and flocks spread o'er your leas, 
Fruits more abundant deck your bending trees, 
Where flows the deadly torrent of that bowl 
That kills the body and destroys the soul?
Banish the vain and childish thought--as well
The bursting flames on Egypt's fields that fell,
When God's right arm for vengeance was laid bare
Would clothe the verdant plains in robes more fair, 
Still greener grown from heaven's descending shocks:—
As well the curse that smote their herds and flocks, 
Would stretch their bounds till, far and wide out-spread,
A thousand vales were sounding to their tread.
No fields rise brighter from the burning bowl, 
Or richer harvests picture its control;
Pale famine stalks with every human woe,
Where e’er its deadly tide is made to flow;
It leaves the sinewy arm of manood weak,
And steals the rose from beauty’s blooming cheek,
The field, the workshop, and the classic hall,
Intemperance darkens with her gloomy pall,
Her wasted path is mark’d by scattered wealth,
Crush’d hopes and pallid forms and ruined hearth,
And oft her votaries in one passing breath
Are headlong hurled into the jaws of death;
In blind precipitance to ruin’s brink
They hurry on and unresisting sink.