From Christ's dear words my bleeding heart would gather
At length submissive grace,—
He says that in the kingdom of His Father,
They still behold His face.
In the bright garden of the Lord they're staying,
Amid the angels fair;
And heavenly whispers to my heart are saying—
Look up, your treasure's there.
THE SONG OF THE BEREAVED.
(I have borrowed thy pattern, dear Hood, to cut out our mourning garments.)
With garments for sorrow torn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat by a new-made grave,
Bewailing her slaughtered dead—
Weep! weep! weep!
Tears of remorseful pain;
The sorrow that sorrows without a hope,
Is poured forth above the slain.
Drink! drink! drink!
It slayeth on every side,
Till the blue-eyed baby is fatherless,
And a desolate widow the bride.
O for a gleam of light
On the home, on the friendly hand,
That pours in kindness the burning draught
That maketh a desolate land.
Drink! drink! drink!
The horse-leech ever craves,
There are empty chairs in the desolate home,
And the earth swells with new-made graves.
Cellar, saloon, and bar,
Bar, cellar, saloon,
And a wasted life, and a hopeless death,
Is the tempted victim's doom
O men with the friendly treat!
O women with New Year's wine!
It is not liquor you're pouring out,
But your child's blood and mine,
Drink! drink! drink!
In joyous youthful prime,
Drink that marks out the downward road
To want and disease and crime
Drink in the lordly hall,
Pour out the blood-red wine,—
And grey hairs sorrow over the grave,
That is dug before its time
Drink for the darling son,
Till the softened brain goes mad,
And darkness falls on the father's life
Which is bound in the life of the lad.
Every unwilling slave
Standeth on the bedroom's brink,
But what will free the body and soul
That is enslaved by drink?
Bar, cellar, saloon,
Cellar, saloon and bar
Alas, that the demon of drink slays more
By far than the demon of war