"Say, shall I taste the cup?" she cried;
"No! no!" a score of tongues replied;
And he who first for wine did call,
Cried "No!" the loudest of them all.
"Then shun the cup," she cried again,
"Twill brand you with the mark of Cain;
Forswear at once the tempting bowl,
That ruins body, mind and soul!
Think of my brother's lonely grave,
Far by the bland Pacific wave;
Think of the hungry infant's wail;
Think of the mother's visage pale;
Think of the teeming prison's cell,
Where rum-in cited felons dwell;
Think of our lovely sisters' doom,
When wine has nipped them in their bloom;
Ay! pause and think of every shame,
Of every crime too dark to name;
And let the wine-fiend's spell be riven,
And turn your thoughts to home, and Heaven!
Grave fathers all, whose foreheads show
The weight of many a winter's snow,
Abjure the wine-cup from to-night,
And with the Temperance Army fight:
Some sons may check their vain desires
By good examples of their sires.
Full many a noble youth is here,
Who scarce has felt a barber's shear;
I charge you flee the demon's spell,
As you would flee the curse of hell!
For in the sparkling vintage lies
A monster dressed in tempting guise,
Who'll lure you from the path of right,
By wizard wiles, and false delight:
A siren's song may charm your ear,
A siren's hand may offer cheer;
But, as you listen to the sound,
The glamor arts will close around,
And you will fall from your high state
To be a ragged pauper's mate;
Rum will destroy your forms divine
As Circe changed her guests to swine.
"Oh lovely maids! to whom are given
The beauties that embellish Heaven!
None of you are too pure or fair
To dally with the dreadful snare.
Never for all Pactolus' wealth,
In wine let lover drink your health;
Beware the traitor who shall dare
For you the cursed draught prepare.
Who loves you truly never will
Consent the crime-fraught cup to fill.
'Tis he, who like a wily foe,
Watches to deal a stealthy blow:
For this he weaves his hellish snare,
To fall upon you unaware.
Oh! shun the tempter, one and all-
Who offers wine essays your fall!"
They feasted late, they feasted long,
The guests were loud in laugh and song,
The tables groaned beneath the weight
Of China, glass, and gorgeous plate;
And luscious nuts, and dainty fare,
Levantine fig, and orient date,
Were seen among the viands rare,
And pyramids of creamy ice,
With frosted cakes ranged side by side;
While Syrian fruit and Indian spice
To grace the bridal banquet vied.
But no one touched a drop of wine,
Though rich Champagne, and limpid Rhine,
And Muscatel,-all sparkling bright,-
And purple Port, stood full in sight.
Among the crowd were those who'd quaff'd
For years the soul-destroying draught;
They saw the black and Stygian brink,
And horrid gulf which yawned beneath,
Filled with a thousand forms of death,
All victims of the demon-Drink!
And then and there they soothly swore
To touch the tempting cup no more,
But ever drink what God had given,
And sent them, on the clouds, from heaven !
[Reflective conversational, Hope beaming through the last stanza.]
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
[Conversational, with calling voice varied in adaptation to the sense -loud or low, near or distant, as required.]
Though rudely blows the wintry blast,
And sifting snows fall white and fast,
Mark Haley drives along the street,
Perched high upon his wagon seat;
His sombre face the storm defies,
And thus from morn till eve he cries—
"Charco'! charco'!"
While echo faint and far replies
"Hark, O! hark, O!"
"Charco'!"—" Hark, O!"- Such cheery sounds
Attend him on his daily rounds.
The dust begrimes his ancient hat;
His coat is darker far than that;
'Tis odd to see his sooty form
All speckled with the feathery storm,
Yet in his honest bosom lies
No spot, nor speck-though still he cries,
"Charco'! charco'!"
And many a roguish lad replies-
"Ark, ho ark, ho!"
• Charco'."—" Ark, ho!”—Such various sounds
Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds.
Thus all the cold and wintry day
He labors much for little pay,
Yet feels no less of happiness
"Charco' !"—" Mark, ho!”—Such joy abounds When he has closed his daily rounds.
The hearth is warm, the fire is bright;
And while his hand, washed clean and white,
Holds Martha's tender hand once more,
His glowing face bends fondly o'er
The crib wherein his darling lies,
And in a coaxing tone he cries,
"Charco'! charco'!"
And baby with a laugh replies
"Ah, go! ah, go!"
Charco' !"" Ah, go!"-while at the sounds
The mother's heart with gladness bounds.
Then honored be the charcoal man,
Though dusky as an African.
'Tis not for you that chance to be
A little better clad than he,
His honest manhood to despise,
Although from morn till eve he cries—
"Charco'! charco' !"
While mocking echo still replies
"Hark, O! hark, O!"
"Charco' ! "Hark, O!"-Long may the sounds
Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds!
THE REVOLUTIONARY RISING.
[This patriotic story should be told in a graphic manner.]
Out of the North the wild news came,
Far flashing on its wings of flame,
Swift as the boreal light which flies
At midnight through the startled skies;
And there was tumult in the air,
The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,
And through the wide land everywhere
The answering tread of hurrying feets
While the first oath of Freedom's gun
Came on the blast from Lexington:
And Concord roused, no longer tame,
Forgot her old baptismal name,
Made bare her patriot arm of power,
And swelled the discord of the hour.
Within its shade of elm and oak
The church of Berkley Manor stood. There Sunday found the rural folk,
And some esteemed of gentle blood. 'In vain their feet with loitering tread Passed mid the graves where rank is naught; All could not read the lesson taught In that republic of the dead.
How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk,
The vale with peace and sunshine full,
Where all the happy people walk,
Decked in their homespun flax and wool;
Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom,
And every maid, with simple art,
Wears on her breast, like her own heart,
A bud whose depths are all perfume;
While every garment's gentle stir
Is breathing rose and lavender.
The pastor came; his snowy locks
Hallowed his brow of thought and care;
And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,
He led into the house of prayer.
Then soon he rose; the prayer was strong;
The Psalm was warrior David's song;
The text, a few short words of might-
"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"
He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
Of sacred rights to be secured;
Then from his patriot tongue of flame
The startling words for Freedom came.
The stirring sentences he spake
Compelled the heart to glow or quake,
And, rising on the theme's broad wing,
And grasping in his nervous hand
The imaginary battle-brand,
In face of death he dared to fling
Defiance to a tyrant king.
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