Poems for the Sea/Intemperance
INTEMPERANCE.
There's a cup that maketh sadness,
Though of mirth it seems the friend;
To the brain it mounts in madness,
And in folly hath its end.
'Neath its sway the sailor reeleth,
Helpless, abject and forlorn;
All his good resolves it stealeth,
Every duty bids him scorn;
Gives the land-sharks power to fleece him,
All his hard-earned wages keep,
And at last, with scorn release him
From worse shipwreck than the deep.
To his household-hearth it creepeth,
And the fire in winter dies;
There, a lonely woman weepeth,
While the famished infant cries.
Bloated form and brow it bringeth,
Limbs that totter to and fro,
And like fiery scorpion stingeth,
To an agony of woe.
Round the faltering feet it weaveth
Snares that blind the eyes in gloom,
Sin it sows, and shame receiveth,
Frowns of hate, and deeds of doom.
Bitter words of strife it teacheth,
Striketh kind affections dead;
Even beyond the grave it reacheth,
To the judgment-bar of dread.
Have we any room to doubt it,
When its evil fruits we see?
Messmates! let us do without it,
Break its thraldom and be free.
Hath not life enough of sorrow,
Sickness, anguish, and decay,
That we needs must madly borrow
Thorns to plant its shortening way?
There's a draught that heaven distilleth,
Pure as crystal from the skies,
Freely, whosoever willeth,
May partake it, and be wise.