I STAND within a wide and lofty room, Whose roof is fretted o'er with rare device, Rich with the painter's and the gilder's art; The walls are cover'd with full many a scene Of love, romance, and war, on land and sea; Mirrors of price reflect the gazer's form, And pillars bright, and burnish'd chandeliers, And moon-like lights shed brilliance over all. The place might be some temple of delight, Formed to give joy to proud and wealthy man ; But 'tis accursed-and I could almost deem The lamps were demon-heads that call'd to sin, Or lights that lead to darkness and despair— The pictured walls seem dabbled o'er with blood, Drain'd from the fountains of the human heart. Look on the inmates of that splendid place! With sunken eyes, and cheeks emaciate, And forms enveloped in foul rags, not clad,
They crowd around, and ask the drink of death—
The drink of poverty, disgrace, and shame.
The glittering, gorgeous casks are ranged around,
Mark'd with the name of various deadly draughts;
Some sweet to taste, in operation slow;
Others strong, burning, maddening, swift—all sure.
Behold yon female, young, but worn and wan,
With swimming eyes and inarticulate speech,
The widow of a drunkard-she did seek
Comfort from that which all her hope destroyed-
To drown her sorrows in the liquid fire
That flames and sparkles in the crystal glass—
That scorching lava of the human soul,
Which bears more ruin, in its burning tide,
Than e'er was vomited from out the jaws
Of those terrific mountains which have whelm'd
The pride of cities with their horrid spawn.
Look on yon figure, grimed and seared with toil—
Gone is the self-esteem which once was his,
Based on his strength of limb and skilful hand;
No more with swelling heart he thinks of home,
And of his household treasures boasting speaks ;
No more with joy he views his children's forms,
And hears their prattle with a fond delight;
No more they come when sounds his welcome voice,
And cling around him with hilarious shouts ;
No more they list, with anxious ear the clock
To tell the hour which brought their parent home,
Whilst at the sound their mother's beaming eyes,
And pleasant smiles, illumed her quiet face,
As quick aside her work she threw, and rose,
With busy action, to prepare the meal,
The simple meal, which cheer'd the son of toil.
That home for him hath lost its wonted charm;
Of household treasures he no more can boast-
His children's forms are clothed in ragged garb,
Their youthful cheeks have lost their roseate hue,
And at his voice in tears they trembling fly;
Instead of fond caress descends a blow,
And reckless curses stop their cries for food.
With haggard cheek, his suffering, trembling wife,
The cheerful evening meal no more prepares―
An empty cupboard mocks and grieves her heart;
And even if the means were hers to spread
The fare of old before her husband now,
Too well she knows the drunkard's taste would
The simple beverage with an oath of scorn.
Away with thought!—fill high the glass again!
The demon-palace hath a blaze of light,
And crowds of victims quaff the drink of death;
Some grasp each other's hands in maudlin mood,
And vow eternal friendship, which endures
The draining of another glass, and then
The friends are turn'd to fierce and bitter foes, And blows are interchanged, and words of hate. Some in the ears of heedless strangers breathe The secrets they had treasured
up for years; Some scatter round, with hands profuse, the coin Which is not theirs to spend-they dream not then Of stony prison-walls and gloomy cell, Ere long to be their portion, or perchance A dreary exile to a convict's home,
Where they must live in chains a life of toil.
Away with thought!—it is a glorious scene,
At which the fiends might clap their hands for joy,
And hold in hell a feast to celebrate
The happy tidings that a host of guests
Were paving for themselves a broad highway,
O'er which, with headlong and infuriate speed,
They might rush madly, in uncheck'd career,
To the eternal regions of the damn'd.
There beauty without virtue stalks about,
The painted herald of her own disgrace,
Making strange mockery at her fallen state,
Her lips polluted with foul words of crime,
And changed the very nature of her sex.
There is the mother with her shrivell'd babe,
Pouring the poison in its crying mouth;
There is the beldame, with a trembling hand,
Lifting the poison to her blacken'd lips;
There is the beggar spending doled-out alms
With a free spirit and a liberal hand;
There is the lurking thief, with wandering look, Strengthening his courage for the nightly prowlAway with thought!-it is a glorious scene!
Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth and home and that sweet time,
When last I heard their soothing chime !
Those joyous hours are past away!
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells!
And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!
THERE are few hearts that will not respond to the sentiment embodied in the above beautiful lines, and
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