"Yes--erring child; but to my tale. My mother loved that lost one still, From the deep fount which could not fail (Through changes dark, from good to ill,) Her woman's heart--and sad and pale, She yielded to his stubborn will; Perchance she felt remonstrance vain,-- The effort to resist gave pain. But carefully she hid her grief From him, the idol of her youth; And fondly hoped, against belief, That her deep love and stedfast truth Would touch his heart, and win him back From Folly's dark and devious track. "Vain hope! the drunkard's heart is hard as stone, No grief disturbs his selfish, sensual joy; His wife may weep, his starving children groan, And Poverty with cruel gripe annoy. He neither hears, nor heeds their famish'd moan, The glorious wine-cup owns no base alloy. Surrounded by a low, degraded train, His fiendish laugh defiance bids to pain; He hugs the cup--more dear than friends to him-- Nor sees stern ruin from the goblet rise, Nor flames of hell careering o'er the brim,-- 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 She crept, to look along the bleak, black moor. He comes--he comes!--and, quivering all with dread, She spoke kind welcome to that sinful man. His sole reply,--'Get supper--give me bread!' Then, with a sneer, he tauntingly began To mock the want that stared him in the face, Her bitter sorrow, and his own disgrace. "'I have no money to procure you food, No wood, no coal, to raise a cheerful fire; The madd'ning cup may warm your frozen blood-- We die, for lack of that which you desire!' She ceased,--erect one moment there he stood, The foam upon his lip; with fiendish ire He seized a knife which glitter'd in his way, And rush'd with fury on his helpless prey. Then from a dusky nook I fiercely sprung, The strength of manhood in that single bound: Around his bloated form I tightly clung, And headlong brought the murderer to the ground. We fell--his temples struck the cold hearth-stone, The blood gush'd forth--he died without a moan!