Classic Poem

God speed thy mission, pictured scroll,
Till thou hast taught, on every shore,
And graven on every human soul
Thy high and holy lore.
Go boldly to the proudest board,
Where the red wine is gayly poured,
And midst the revel's gorgeous glare
Whisper to each young heart, beware!
Crime, madness, death lies hid beneath
The jeweled goblet's sparkling wreath.

Go tell how one, a noble youth,
With radiant brow and sunny hair,
Whose heart was full of love and truth,
And brave to do and dare,
Went forth, in life's sweet morning hours,
Upon a path of fairy flowers,
Dreaming a thousand glowing dreams
Of Eden lands and sparkling streams,
And all things beautiful and fair,
That Fancy paints in earth and air,
Till his poetic, fiery soul,
Spurned sober reason's calm control.

Tell how he won a gentle bride,
To grace his ancient marble hall;
Tell of his station, wealth and pride,
And then portray his fall.
And first he quaffed in pleasure's bowers
The social glass, to speed the hours;
Till, half unwittingly its slave,
He tottered to a drunkard's grave.

Go show the felon's dreary cell,
Where first the ruined one awoke
To memories he could never quell,
Until his mad heart broke.
Memories of home and happy days,
Of childish prattle, childish plays,
And his young wife, with love-lit brow.
Home, children, wife — where are you now!
He shrieked, and wildly cursed his fate —
O God, his home was desolate!

His children begged, from door to door,
His maniac wife was barred and banned;
He was a murderer — human gore
Reeked on his red right hand.
Then foulest fiends of darkness came,
Hissing in scorn his branded name,
And telling over, one by one.
The dire misdeeds his hands had done,
Till madness fired the throbbing brain.
One blow, one struggle, and he died —
A drunkard, murderer, suicide.

Go tell of hovels, damp and old,
Where Heaven's own light is feebly shed;
And children, shivering with the cold,
Cry all day long for bread.
Go tell of woman's sacred trust,
Unheeded, trampled in the dust;
Of holy love, that still lives on,
When joy and peace and hope are gone,
And like the ivy, would conceal
The wounds it has no power to heal.

Go tell of weary, wasted years,
Of blind suspicion, jealous rage,
Of broken vows, repentant tears,
And premature old age;
Of haggard want and squandered wealth,
Of trembling limbs and ruined health,
Of shattered mind and blighted name,
Of ragged beggary and shame,
And whisper: All these ills are thine,
Foul spirit, soul-destroying wine!