The Demon of Intemperance

My native land! amid thy cabin homes,
Amid thy palaces, a demon roams:
Frenzied with rage, yet subtle in his wrath,
He crushes thousands in his fiery path;
Stalks through our cities unabashed, and throws
Into the cup of sorrow bitterer woes;
Gives to the pangs of grief an added smart,
With keenest anguish wrings the breaking heart,
Drags the proud spirit from its envied height,
And breathes on fondest hopes a killing blight;
Heralds the shroud, the coffin, and the pall,
And the grave thickens where his footsteps fall!

Ho for the rescue! Ye whose eyes have seen
The ruin wrought where Drunkenness hath been
Ye who have gazed upon the speechless grief
Of early widowhood that mocked relief—
Ye who have heard the orphan’s struggling sigh,
When, mad with agony, he prayed to die—
Ye who have marked the crimes and shames that throng,
Like sateless fiends, the drunkard’s way along—
Ye who can tell his everlasting doom
When darkly over him shall close the tomb.
Up for the conflict! let your battle-peal
Ring on the air as rings the clash of steel;
When, rank to rank, contending armies meet,
Trampling the dead beneath their bloody feet!
Up! ye are bidden to a nobler strife,
Not to destroy, but rescue human life;
No added drop on misery’s cup to press,
But minister relief to wickedness;
To give the long-lost father to his boy—
To cause the widow’s heart ton sing for joy—
Bid plenty laugh where hungry famine howls,
And pour the sunlight o’er the tempest’s scowls—
Bring to the soul that to despair is given
A new-found joy—a holy hope of heaven!