page 46

Dead.

By Rev. Canon Bell.

Dead: killed in a wild drunken brawl;
Ah here is the sting and the shame,
Ah here is the wormwood and gall;
This burns in my bosom like flame!
Would that tears had dropped on my pall
Ere this blot had blackened his name.

Thus to die with a wine-maddened brain,
Besotted, befooled, and beguiled!
I curse, from the heart of my pain,
In words that sound frantic and wild;
I curse—but my curses are vain;
They cannot restore me my child.

Yet my grief is but common they say,
Others feel the same anguish and woe;
Sad mothers and wives face the day,
And their eyes with hot tears overflow,
As, weeping, they pass on their way,
And cursing the wine as they go.

I tell you in God's holy name,
That this is the scourge of the land,
Its burden, its sorrow, its shame,
Burnt deep on the brow like a brand;
Striking hard at its honour and Fame,
And crumbling its strength into sand.

We mothers and wives lift the cry,
And pray ye, O men, for your grace:
Come, help from your stations on high,
As ye hope to look God in the face,
Who sees us as weeping we lie,
And ask you for truth from your place!

O poets, your aid we implore:
Chant no longer the praises of wine;
Dash the wine-cup down on the floor,
You dishonour a craft so divine!
And, indeed, you would praise it no more,
If your son lay dead there like mine!

O singers, well skilled in the song,
Who stir the sweet air with your breath
As your voices move thrilling along,
As happy as birds on the heath;
Dare ye lend your great gifts to such wrong;
If so from your brows tear the wreath!

Hear the cry from the mad-house and jail,
Hear the moan of the starving and poor,
page 47 Hear the widows' and orphans' sharp wail,
Who, like martyrs that groan and endare,
Lift to God their white faces so pale,
And though speechless, His pity adjure.

Help all! Free the slaves from their bands,
Help, and take part in this fight;
Strike the fetters from the palsied hands!
Lide Samson, rise up in your might,
Break the chains like green willow wands;
Do this in God's name and the right!

Oh, scorn not, I pray you, the cry
Of a mother, a widow undone;
But even though you pass it by,
'Twill move the great God on His throne:
He bears from the dust where I lie,
Where in ashes I weep for my son.
—Athenœum,