The bridegroom felt in a most merry mood,
And drank each health till his young, joyous blood
Coursed through his veins as if quite all on fire,
And his kind thoughts gave place to bad desire.
His brain began to whirl—he boisterous grew—
All eyes on him, observant, quickly drew—
He seized a bottle, which he madly threw.
Sad to relate! it struck his beauteous bride!
And she fell dead, by her dear mother's side.
This dread catastrophe soon sobered him,
And he was sick, and felt his eyes grow dim.
But while all stood in terror and dismay,
He roused himself, and fled from thence away;
Then headlong rushed into a deep, deep, stream—
And thus was ended that bright, youthful dream!
The pious mother tried in God to trust,
But this dire blow soon sank her in the dust.
Her parents, too, felt this most dreadful stroke
Too hard to bear, for both their hearts it broke!
Oh, cruel Liquor! Thou hast millions slain,
And still their death-throes cry to thee in vain!
Ten thousand broken hearts may soon be found
In almost every land the world around.
Millions of orphans' cries thine ears assail,
While parents' early death they loud bewail;
The prisons and asylums which we build,
From thy sad victims' ranks are chiefly filled.
War's dreadful ravages are justly blamed;
But war with thee deserves not to be named!
And still, insatiate monster! thy dread jaws
Are daily filled—being unrestrained by laws!
When will the day, the happy day, arrive,
When thee the injured nations forth shall drive?
Beware, Apprentices! In time beware!
Flee from those places which would you insnare;
Regard that man as your real enemy,
Who, tempting, leads to inebriety!
Now, while you daily toil, I wish you may
Have many a truly happy holiday!
The hero of my tale of such had some,
And felt well pleased whenever they did come.
On such occasions he was wont to go
To visit friends, who did much kindness show.
With ardent joy full beaming in his face,
He more than once revisited the place
Where his dear father spent his youthful days,
In toilsome labor, or in childish plays.
To him 'twas still a sweetly quiet spot,
A picture of content—a small, neat cot—
And just beneath the hill called Farleton Knot.
He had a strange, romantic turn of mind;
To taste adventure ever felt inclined.
This being premised, we may expect to see,
That by slight dangers undeterred was he
From venturing to the edge of precipice,
To have a peep into some dark abyss.
The hill of which I spoke has sometimes been,
As was well known, the site of tragic scene.
It is a solid mass of limestone rock—
And there oft falls some huge misshapen block.
On one occasion a poor quarryman
Saw danger pending, and away he ran;
'Twas all in vain! the lately-riven stone
Came thundering down, and crushed his every bone!
A tale like this might well some minds appal—
But WILLIAM felt, just then, of dauntless soul;
And, with his cousin, hasted up the hill,
With eager steps and most unyielding will;
A scene there met his gaze which him repaid,
And threw the toil required far in the shade.
On every hand a charming prospect lay,
In all the beauty of a bright Spring day.
All Nature smiled, in loveliest green confessed,
Like a fair maiden for her bridal drest.
And songsters of the grove, no longer sad,
Their notes were warbling forth to make her glad.
And need we wonder then, if there he stood,
With glowing heart, and wrapt in musing mood?
As was his wont, he felt a strong desire
From such sweet views to draw poetic fire.
And so it was, for out his numbers flowed,
Which, quickly penned, he on his friends bestowed.
And though these numbers were but very rude,
They were, by rustic friends, with wonder viewed.
While he stood there his thoughts were backward thrown
To days which on Time's fleetest wing had flown—
When his grandfather, in that humble cot,
With sweet contentedness enjoyed his lot;
Wrought quietly at his most lowly trade,
And honest lived—though small the profits made.
In his mind's eye, he saw his father climb
Those rugged cliffs, in youth, or manhood's prime;
Or, with his brothers join in lively play,
On the long evenings of each Summer day.
Anon would view the time when each forsook
That humble cottage, some fresh toil to brook;
Saw them all settled in a wedded life—
In honest work employed, exempt from strife.
Or glanced at some of his own early days—
When he gave up, on Saturdays, his plays,
To go with his dear grandfather, to sell
The neat bee-hives the old man framed so well.
And often wondered what made selfish men
Try at less price those bee-hives to obtain;
And why the tears would oft the eyes bedim
Of that old man, when they thus bantered him?
And then with lightning speed his thoughts would stray,
To when his grandfather was ta'en away,
To meet in church-yard with his kindred clay.
As thus he stood and mused, his cousin's call
Roused him again to consciousness of all
The widespread beauties of that landscape bright
And he, reluctant, left the beauteous sight.
To hint at all he saw my time would fail,
And might too much but lengthen out my tale.
Suffice it, therefore, just for me to say,
That he spent pleasantly each holiday.
Ere this, when he was in his fourteenth year,
Amongst the Temperance ranks he did appear;
Attended meetings, heard the speeches made,
And grew indignant at the liquor trade.
He signed the pledge—the strict "teetotal" pledge—
And felt determined constant war to wage
Against the huge, fierce monster, Drunkenness
Which caused, on every hand, such sore distress.
A drunken parent he had never had—
The Lord preserved him from a fate so sad!
But still his fervent soul was filled with grief,
From which he vainly strove to gain relief,
So long as this dread vice o'erspread the land,
And strong drink's victims died, on every hand.
He thought upon the thing till bold he grew,
And framed a speech to tell of all he knew
Of this vile demon's doings in the world,
And wished that out of it he might be hurled.
Soon after this, from Canada there came
A Christian man; no matter what his name.
He long to WILLIAM'S parents had been known,
And hospitality to him was shown.
On that good country's merits much he dwelt,
And COOPER'S ears being open, soon he felt
A strong desire to reach that distant shore,
And all its giant wonders to explore.
Oft he had heard of its vast, splendid lakes,
Stupendous cataracts, and great cane-brakes;
Of boundless woods, well filled with noble trees
And hugest rivers rolling to the seas.
The man described quite well Niagara's falls,
Its thundering sound as it o'erleaps its walls;
He told the distance they could hear the sound,
And how with ceaseless roar it shook the ground;
Of Summer's heat, of the long Winter's cold,
And at what price the finest lands were sold.
This, and far more, the settler told the youth,
Who did regard it all as sterling truth,
And wished—but wished in vain—that he was free
To cross at once the stormy, deep blue sea.
No way appeared but quietly to wait
Till he was loosed, and grown to man's estate.
Some years must pass before that day arrive,
So to be patient he thought fit to strive.
One-half of his apprenticeship had fled,
And now he fairly earned his daily bread.
Of clothes, his parents' ever constant care
Provided him with quite a decent share.
Of pocket money he ne'er had a store,
His needs supplied, he did not care for more;
And his step-mother oft thought fit to say
That "money burned his pockets all away."
Howe'er it was, he never had a cent
But found a hole, and out of that it went!
Though still close-worked, he did contrive to spare
Some precious, time to spend in rhyming ware.
He read sweet COWPER'S poems through and through—
And, more he read, the more he liked them, too;
His "Task" the most of all—an ample field—
What heart-felt pleasure it did to him yield!
Then MILTON'S lofty genius fired his soul,
Nor did he tire till he had read the whole.
Again began, and o'er the pages pored,
And drank the sweets with which they are well stored.
Then THOMPSON'S Seasons with delight he read,
And YOUNG'S Night Thoughts in mournful dress arrayed.
Some few sweet pieces he from BYRON drew,
And read poor BURNS with much advantage, too.
But of all poets he loved COWPER most,
For in Miltonic grandeur he was lost;
And THOMSON lacked that great variety
Which in sweet Olney's bard we clearly see.
Afflicted Poet! Thou didst well thy part,
By pouring balm into the wounded heart;
And while the world endures, thy verse will cheer
Poor down-cast souls, and bid them not to fear!