He drank;—
All warning he repelled with scorn.
He boasted his superior strength,
But in the light of manhood’s morn
That boasted strength was from him shorn,
His days had measured out their length.
He reeled;—
And day by day the cheerful sun
Looked kindly on his crooked path,
The nights beheld no credit won,
But brooded over evils done,
And fearful threats and burning wrath.
He fell;—
A maniac’s look he cast around,
Then shook the air with one wild yell,
And smote with bloody hand the ground,
And uttered startling words whose sound
Ended with blasphemy and hell.
He died;—
With madness in his blood and brain,
With curses on his purple lips,
And bloodshot eyes whose every vein
Lay like a red and burning chain,
As raised by demons’ knotted whips.
He lay;—
Not as the spoils of death are laid,
When Nature hath no outrage borne,—
Not as the old or young, arrayed
In decent shroud, when calm they fade,
And honoured by the eyes that mourn.
He lay
Unblest, unprized, uncombed, unwashed,
A fresh, red, cut was on his brow,
His teeth were set as last they gnashed,
His eyes glared fierce as last they flashed,
And few could bear to see him now.
His grave!—
I stood beside the Drunkard’s grave,
And moralized above the sod
Which rested on the wine-cup’s slave,
The dupe of self, whom none could save,
Now left to silence, and his God.