The lava flood that glads his bloodshot eyes
Poisons alike his body and his soul,
Till reason lies self-murder'd in the bowl.
"It was a dark and fearful winter night,
Loud roar'd the tempest round our hovel home;
Cold, hungry, wet, and weary was our plight,
And still we listen'd for his step to come.
My poor sick mother!--'twas a piteous sight
To see her shrink and shiver, as our dome
Shook to the rattling blast; and to the door