Temperance Poem

     Man, scarce beneath the angels in his birth, 
Who deems himself sole sovereign of the earth, 
Searching in other climes what one denies, 
From the blue northern arch to southern skies, 
Flings out his canvass ‚— bids the breezes sweep 
His bounding vessel o'er the foaming deep, 
And when the storm-clouds ride upon the blast,
Threatening destruction as they hurry past,
He turns the quivering lightnings as they glow, 
And sends them hissing to the waves below;
And as the winds to swift destruction urge 
His trembling bark along the wrathful surge, 
With fearless hand he guides it through the deep, 
Far from the shore, till all the wild winds sleep.

     And yet all basely will he bow to sin, 
To feed the passions that are raging in 
His own dark bosom; yet will he destroy 
The God within him for the painful joy, 
That or one moment round his path will dance, 
Who bows to thee woe-fraught Intemperance.
Then when the raging elements conspire
To crush his hopes and thwart his fond desire, 
When midnight tempests roll the shattered wave, 
And far below unfolds the yawning grave, 
With nerveless arm he meets the expected blow, 
And sinks supinely to the shades below.

     See ye yon bark go dancing o'er the seas,
Her white sails spread to catch the favoring breeze, 
The light winds fan them with a gentle wing, 
As proud to urge so beautiful a thing.
The parting waves leap backward from her prow, 
Like curls flung off from some fair maiden's brow, 
Onward she glides, companionless and free,
As if half conscious of her majesty.

     Ride on her deck the generous and the bold, 
The wealth of India fills her guarded hold, 
Sweets that an hundred waving fields afford, 
To crown with luxury the bounteous board, 
And sparkling gems all beautiful and rare,
Brought from the vasty cares to adorn the fair.
Alas! that there should flow the red bowl of despair.

     Glance ye upon yon bounding bark once more, 
Now does the storm-god wake the tempest's roar, 
The lashing surges on her sides are driven,
Heaven stoops in night, the waves aspire to heaven, 
And rolling on in swift succeeding ranks
Sweep o'er the bark and crush her trembling planks;
Rent into shreds before the furious gale, 
From shivered masts is torn the unguarded sail, 
And o'er the storm is heard the helpless seaman's wail.

     When dangers frown'd in darkness o'er their path 
And blackening clouds foretold impending wrath, 
They deeply quaff'd the red and burning bowl, 
To nerve the hand and cheer the sinking soul, 
And now fell discord rages on the deck, 
And ruin rides terrific o'er the wreck;
See her fast driven by each succeeding wave, 
Full on the jutting cliff with none to save, 
Near and more near she rushes to her doom, 
Where giant rocks o'er raging billows loom;
One crash—one bursting shriek—one gurgling cry 
And the fierce storm alone is heard careering by. 

     In vain their loved ones on the distant strand 
Watch for their sails approaching to the land;
No more for ever shall their longing eyes, 
View o'er the deep their swelling canvass rise;
Their kindred, buried in the unfathomed main, 
Shall never meet those sorrowing friends again 
Till the last trump shall summon from their sleep, 
The countless thousands slumbering in the deep.

     In vain the merchant-man with hopeful glance,
Scans the calm sea to view that bark's advance, 
Or anxious gazes when the tempest raves 
And ocean heaves its wild tumultuous waves.
Crush'd are his hopes, that bark returns no more 
With its rich lading to the destined shore.
The wealth of years is buried in an hour, 
By the red howl resigned into the wild wave's power.

     These are the trophies of Intemperance, these 
The gifts she proudly claims on land and seas.
Tears, groans, woe-riven hearts, and deep despair, 
Wealth, honor, virtue, all we have and are, 
The tyrant claims, and every worshipper 
At her dark shrine, resigns them unto her.

     Yet they who bow before her altar-stone, 
Bear not the burden of their woes alone;
The worse than widowed, the drunkard's wife, 
Bound to corruption still possessed of life, 
Feels in her heart a more consuming woe,
Than if kind heaven in death had laid her lover low.
And oh! how often are his children driven, 
In brutal wrath, amid the storms of heaven, 
When midnight clouds their drenching torrents pour, 
To seek for shelter at a stranger's door.

     Alas! how vain is the attempt to trace
Thy course, Intemperance, o'er the human race 
To paint the woes, and strife, and bitter wrath, 
And blood that marks thy desolating path.
Oh could yon sky the hidden truth unveil, 
Man's cheek would blanch, the stoutest heart would fall,
And deepest Hell confess the horrors of the tale.

     Our feeble words but image far below 
The fearful truth, the inward sense of woe;
There is one language, and but one alone, 
Above all words to tongue or pen unknown, 
That can portray to man's discerning glance, 
The woes that spring from foul Intemperance.
Behold it written in the tearless eye 
That speaks in eloquence of agony.

     Thus o'er our groaning land from shore to shore,
Ruin's red tide in other days did pour, 
Bearing the proud, the noble, and the fair, 
Down to the shoreless ocean of despair, 
Still gathering strength, it thundered wild and free, 
Like mountain torrents rushing to the sea —
All that could make within the human heart 
Fierce and ungovernable passions start —
All that could add to sorrow's weary load 
Darkly within that fiery torrent flow'd —
Yet blinded man went rushing on in pride, 
And headlong plunged into the burning tide.