And men were frank and honest with their friends,
And also frank and honest with their foes,
And either loved with nakedness of soul,
Or fought until one of the two did fall,
Strong was the love, and hard the hater’s blows,
While now his love and hate man subtly blends.
Sordino loitered much in lane and street,
And listened well to every swinging bell,
And searched the city for his treasure lost,
But not a sound was from a steeple tost,
Of its abiding-place his ear to tell,
Nor did a single clue his vision meet.
He daily searched, until the winter fog
Began to close about the sightly town,
Then melancholy claimed him for her own,
And lest he should be lost in grief and groan,
He sought the company of those who drown
The sorrows of their hearts with ale and grog.
XXV
Once poets tuned their lyres in praise of Bacchus,—
Forsooth he was a mirth-inspiring god—
All garlanded with leaves of blooming vine,—
Adored by Aphrodite and the Nine,—
Bacchant and Satyr at his worship trod
Fantastic measures, such as now would wrack us.
Bards have turned preachers, which is for the better,
And no more should their songs extol his name,
But rather sound the anguish and the woe
Brought upon man by this relentless foe,
Take up the note of poverty and shame,
And ills of drunkenness which man enfetter.
Until his pow’r, in human nature seated,
As on a throne, shall no more have its sway,—
When man shall cease forgetfulness to borrow,—
Of failures, disappointments and dark sorrow,—
From his delusions, which no ills allay,—
Until—until—his reign shall be defeated!
But judge not harshly those who suffer most,
The victims of the cup, the self-condemned,
Who fight a hopeless battle and go down;
Show love and pity, rather than a frown,
For though the sot by men may be contemned,—
Still there is One who came to save the lost.
We know but little why he gave himself
An abject slave to appetite and lust,
What passions of past generations found
In him their culmination, held him bound,
And though he struggled hard, it seems he must
Into the depths of sin and darkness delv.
Perchance ambition was his Waterloo,
And having lost the last and strongest trench,
He spends a starless night mid weeping gloom,
Abandoning life’s dreams to their dark tomb,
He seeks, at last, his soul’s remorse to quench
With what he knows his manhood will undo.