The Rum-Seller

Lord, how long shall the Avenger 
     Hold the fiery balls of wrath,
While the needy and the stranger, 
     Lured away from virtue's path,
Fall the victims of the slayer, 
     In his foul or gilded lair,
Where the spider-like waylayer
     Spreads his soul-destroying snare.

Shail our loveliest sons and daughters
     Sink in his infernal den,
Where remorselessly he slaughters
     Thousands of our fellow men;
Pouring out the tide of ruin
     In one red and burning wave, 
Freighted with the dark undoing 
     Of the beautiful and brave?

Shall the fiend devour forever
     In his God-defying pride,
And the bowl be broken never,
     Whence he pours the damning tide?
Never quenched the fiery sources 
     Of unfathomed woe and sin,
Piled about with human corpses,—
     Black with blighted souls within?

God of mercy! shall the demon 
     Scathless pour his burning bowl, 
While the truth's devoted freeman 
     Shrinks away with coward soul?
No! from every hill and valley,
     Tempest-throated thunders No!
Till around our banners rally
     Myriads against the foe.

Onward, in the fiery daring 
     Of the invincible in fight, 
With the high majestic bearing 
     Of the spirits mailed in Right;
So shall we be armed with terror 
     To rebuke the Spoiler's lust, 
And to tread the holds of error 
     Down into the trampled dust.