Bless God, enough are left, at least
To put a muzzle on the beast
That walks our land from breadth to length
And robs the strong man of his strength,
Takes bread from babes, steals wise men's brains,
And leaves them bound in helpless chains;
Makes sin and sorrow, shame and woe,
Where e'er his cloven foot may go.
This is the mission of the beast
Whose bloated keepers sit and feast
On seasoned dainties that were bought
With blood, and tears, and God knows what.
Keepers who laugh when women cry,
Who smile when children starve and die,
If so they gain one farthing more
To add to their ill-gotten store.
From south and north and west and east,
The people clamored: "Chain the beast!
Fetter the monster Alcohol,
Before he robs us of our all."
Thank God, the earnest cry was heard,
And hearts of noble men were stirred,
And though a weak-kneed host went down
Before the keeper's threatening frown,
Enough were left--a bold, brave few,
Strong-brained, broad-souled men that were true,
Men who were men, and did not fear
The villain's threat, the coward's sneer;
Enough to muzzle with the law
The foulest beast the world e'er saw.
Thank God, thank God, the people say.
True men have not all passed away.
[OUR ANGEL.]
Upon a couch all robed by careful hands
For her repose, the maiden Mable lies
Her long bright hair is braided in smooth bands--
A mass of stranded gold, that mortal eyes
May, wondering, gaze upon a little while;
That mortal hands may touch a few times more.
Her placid lips part in a sweet, faint smile;
As if the glories of that mystic shore
When first they fell upon her spirit eyes--
All the rare splendors of that unseen way--
Had touched her with a wondering, glad surprise,
And left the pleased expression on her clay.
Her two fair hands are crossed upon her breast--
Two shapes of wax upon a drift of snow.
And they have robed her for her peaceful rest.
Not in the hateful shroud--that sign of woe,
But in that garb we loved to see her wear;
A dark blue robe, fashioned by her own hand.
I wonder, as I see her lying there,
If God will give her spirit in His land
Another shape. She could not be more fair.
I think he will not change her form, or face,
But with the same long, rippling, golden hair
She will kneel down before the throne of grace,