The Drunkard's Bride (a.k.a. The Drunkard's Wife)

PART FIRST—THE LAMENT.
                                 I.
Lord of my days! by whom hath not
   The sparrow fallen unseen from life,
Why hath it been my bitter lot
      To live a drunkard’s wife?
To bear within my breast a heart
   Where Sorrow, like a worm, might feed,
And Anguish sheathe the rankling dart
      Which makes my bosom bleed?

                                 II.
Ah, why, when they who trod with me
   Life’s earlier walks in joy are blest,
Why is my soul condemned to be
      By misery oppress’d?
Young gladness is no shield to stay
   The shafts of wo unerring sped,
For once was I as glad as they,
      In days which long have fled.

                                 III.
That I have been less good or fair,
   Not thence the clouds which o’er me brood
For when did wasteful Ruin spare
      The beautiful or good?
Full brightly on the brow of morn
   May gleam the day-star, like a gem
Whose golden radiance might adorn
      A monarch’s diadem:

                                 IV.
But clouds and darkness round about
   Its glittering throne their robes will fling,
Till all its burning rays go out,
      Before the tempest’s wing:
Fair may the queenly rose unfold
   Its blushing petals to the view,
And, with its closing skirts enrolled,
      Lock up the evening dew;

                                 V.
But morn with frosty wing will bid
   The rose-tree yield its drooping pride,
While, on its breast, the dew-drop hid,
      Is in the rude blast dried;
And woman’s eye may softly roll
   Beneath a brow of polished white,
Fired by the gladness of her soul
      With heart-enlivening light;

                                 VI.
But soon the gathering clouds of wo
   May quench the brightness of its beam,
Till from the spirit comes no glow,
      Save one despairing gleam:
Her cheek may wear the liveliest hue
   Of summer’s rose, in beauty drest,
And on her heart, like evening dew,
      Love’s holy influence rest;

                                 VII.
But when the wing of care sweeps past,
   Her blooming beauty will depart,
And Love, in Scorn’s careering blast,
       Fly shivering from the heart,
Right joyously my spirit leapt,
   And beat my youthful bosom high,
Ere yet the storm of Sorrow swept
      Along the lowering sky.

                                 VIII.
I could have known such gladness still,
   Had not the grim Destroyer’s bowl
Poured out its burning floods of ill,
      Which waste away the soul.
Oh blissful days! would they come back
   And all my darkened soul illume,
Joy then should light my sunset track,
      And cheer me to the tomb.

                                 IX.
But why should Hope still point before
   To mock the spirit veiled in wo,
With dreams of joy which never more
      That anguished soul may know?
And what avails t me the sad
   Rememb’rance of my better years,
When once this heavy heart was glad,
      These eyes undimmed by tears?

                                 X.
They’re past—their every joy is gone,
   And left a heart which cannot heal—
The hand of Death can end alone
      The burning woes I feel.
Thou King of Terrors! Unto thee
   I come, one welcome boon to crave—
Oh, set my captive spirit free!
      I’m weary for the grave.

                                 ——
PART SECOND—THE REJOICING
                                 I.
Oh Lord, I know thou rul’st above,
   And I adore thy hallowed name,
That Thy Eternal, boundless love,
      Is evermore the same.
Exult my Soul!—oh, Earth rejoice!
   The Drunkard stands erect once more;
Heart, leap for joy! and thou, my voice,
      The choral anthem pour.

                                 II.
Had you gray rocks burst up in flame,
   And day leapt out from midnight’s gloom,
And all the dead of every name
      Come bounding from the tomb,
Not more unthought the startling sight,
   Than when came forth the dead in sin,
And on my soul’s unbroken night,
      Joy poured its sunshine in.

                                 III.
Now, now I know there is a power, 
   To sweep the Spoiler from the land,
The victims of an evil hour
      Redeeming from his hand:
Whom Ruin’s heel hath ruthless trod,
   Whom Penury bow’d in wretchedness,
The mercy of the living God
      Shall lift again and bless.

                                 IV.
The trampled reed He will not break,
   The weary one in grief laid low,
Sore-hearted, He will not forsake
      And leave to deeper wo.
What though the clouds of life grow dark,
   And thicken o’er a stormy sky,
And lightnings rive, and whirlwinds mark
      Their foldings, as they fly?

                                 V.
Yet shall they break, and in the light
   Which streams from joy’s rekindled flame,
Their skirts shall make the heavens more bright
      Than ere the darkness came,
The morning star, once short and pale,
   Will climb the blooming East, and pour
Its glory where the dun cloud-veil
      Had shrouded it before.

                                 VI.
The rose which drooped beneath the frost 
   Will Spring, with balmy breath, renew,
And on its leaves, the wind had toss’d,
      Night shed its holy dew;
And woman’s eye, once more, may burn,
   Though Grief had stol’n its light away,
And even her blooming charms return
      With joy’s returning ray.

                                 VII.
The heart can love again, and know
   The gladness it had known before,
Ere yet the burning hand of wo
      Its finer tendrils tore.
To me this is no idle thought,
   The wretchedness of half a life
Hath taught it, as but few are taught,
      Save the poor Drunkard’s wife.

                                 VIII.
Hope’s twilight beams had almost flown,
   And night was dark’ning to despair,
When on my soul the morning shone,
      Full, glorious, and fair.
And love, with all its light, returned
   When Ruin’s tide was backward rolled, 
And in each heart its incense burned,
      As it had burned of old.

                                 IX.
Then why despair, with grief oppress’d?
   The burdened soul shall yet be free;
But when may come the hallowed rest
      It is not ours to see.
Wait, Mortals, for the will of heaven;
   Our path is dark, and we are blind,
Yet know the keys of fate are given
      To One all-wise and kind.

                                 X.
Oh God! to all who bow in dust,
   And long in weariness for the tomb,
Give Thou an everliving trust
      To guide them through the gloom.
And in Thine own appointed time,
   Make glad the hearts of all who mourn,
Till songs of joy and praise sublime
      Wide o’er the world are borne.