JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE.
"JOY!" said the merry mountain Vine,
"A glorious lot is surely mine;
How proud am I in vintage time,
When pleasure fills the sunny
clime;
When my lithe arms droop richly down,
O'er maiden decked with vine-leaf crown ;
When my full fruit is plucked and pressed,
To fire the brain and warm the breast;
When Bacchus reels, with flask in hand,
Laughing and quaffing o'er the land;
And Beauty's eyes with soft light shine-
Joy!" said the merry mountain Vine.
"Joy!" said the merry mountain Stream,
That flashed in morning's rosy beam,
"On paths of peace I proudly go,
To cleanse and strengthen, as I flow.
The grass grows greener where I run,
Brighter the flowers, in shade or sun;
The pilgrim loves my freshening wave,
The peasant feels me cheer and save.
I bear no bane, I make no strife,
But offer calm and healthful life,
My waters bless where'er they gleam-
Joy!" said the merry mountain Stream.
"Lo!" said the Vine, "brave friends are met,
A jolly crew, a jovial set,
Who pour libations unto me,
And drain my blood with boisterous glee.
Up goes the glass, again, again,
Till wit and reason quit the brain.
Grows loud the laugh, grows lewd the tongue,
The bard breaks out in frantic song;
Roars the rude revel, drunk and dim,
Lamp, flask, and table reel and swim;
And the whole herd are mad with wine!-
Joy!" said the laughing mountain Vine.
"Look!" said the Stream, "yon hall of light
Giveth a blest and beauteous sight;
Men in serene and seemly guise,
Women with calm and grateful eyes,
Age with the tranquil brow of truth,
Mild manhood and engaging youth;
They meet to hear, to learn, to teach
High thoughts that flow in lucid speech,
They talk of temperance,' and essay
To bring about man's better day;
And heaven will help the hopeful scheme-
Joy!" said the happy mountain Stream.
"Though bright to see," said Vine to Stream,
Thy draught is dull as dotard's dream,
Puny and poor is thy control,
Thou hast no fire for sluggish soul."
"Though fair to see," said Stream to Vine,
"A sad and dangerous gift is thine,
Thou makest madness after mirth,
Thou spoilest man for Heaven or Earth."
Ye who are prone to love and peace,
Ye who would have disorder cease,
Ye who are happy, wise, and free,
Which is your choice, the Stream or Tree?
OVING unseen through the air,
Present with us everywhere,
We have all an angel guard
Keeping constant watch and ward.
Every deed he doth record,
Every look and thought and word,
Every feeling of the soul,
Lo! he writes it on his roll.
When forebodings fill our breast
With a deep and wild unrest;
Soon his snowy wings are spread
To avert the ills we dread.
Do we think of evil things?
Then the flutter of his wings
Wakes the conscience into life,
Warns it of the coming strife.
Turn we from the narrow road
That would lead our souls to God?
O'er our wandering he doth mourn,
Till our wayward feet return.
Should the soul be dark within,
Struggling with some hated sin;
Stooping low he whispers: "Rise,
Heavenward turn in faith thine eyes."
And when we our foe have fought,
Victory gained through grace besought,
Then his sweet approving kiss
Fills us with a holy bliss.
Moving noiseless through the air,
Bending o'er us everywhere;
We have all an angel guard
Keeping tireless watch and ward.
(Translated from the French, by A. H. H. Mc.MURTRY, M.D.)
HEY were a noble pair, well-formed, and strong;
Twin brothers, close companions, mutual friends; Rough artizans; in short as happy men
As those still are whom strong affection joins.
At morn, they gaily to the work-shop went,
And on the anvil beat, with hasty stroke,
The red-hot iron from the furnace drawn,
Amid the smithy's glare and curling smoke.
The time had come when Anthony and Paul
Must part. Their age was five-and-twenty years,
And then both loved, and simultaneously
Their double marriage celebrated they.
Their life was now a life of love and toil;
And, still more fast to bind this gentle chain,
Sweet children came; and each returning day
Rolled calmly by, and brought nor grief nor pain.
Alas! how easily our happiness
Is lessened, blighted, and for ever lost!
How sentiments of justice, honour, love,
Are oft destroyed by a trifling cause!
Who strays an instant from stern duty's path
Is sometimes hurried to a fearful fall!
A moment comes when all is blank despair,
And life, once sweet and calm, is hideous all!
One morning, Paul is going to his work
Right glad, when, at the corner of the street,
He meets a comrade. Ah," the latter says,
"At length I see you! No, I cannot be
Mistaken! 'Tis my playmate! Happy fate,
To meet an old friend of a by-gone year!
Let's first a turn along the boulevard take,
And then we shall have breakfast and good cheer!"
To his old friend Paul yields not for a while : "No, I have pressing work to do," he said. "Tut, nonsense! you can stay a short time out; 'Tis Monday; don't so sober-minded be! What! with an old chum won't you have a drink! We shan't be long; an hour is all, you know. I do assure you, much of you I'd think
If you refused me! As I live, you'll go!"
The workman, giving way, says, "Well, let's go!
You ask one hour! Agreed! But, mind! no more!
For old acquaintance and good fellowship,
We'll have a drop and then return to work."
Then they shake hands, and to the tavern go;
They chat, and eat, and laugh, and drink of wine
One bottle, then a second, then a third-
Their thirst with drink increasing, I opine.
Alas! th' unhappy man the first wrong step
Has ta'en, and quickly he goes on to gross excess.
He drinks to drown remorse; he hates to work;
And, even if he tried, his strength is gone.
Wine does not satisfy-he needs a drink
Which burns his throat, and brings forgetfulness;
He now the strongest brandy madly quaffs,
And curses home with daily drunkenness.
He'll never more industrious workman be-
All vigour lost, all spirit in him crushed,
All hope of happiness for ever fled.
At times a fit of madness seizes him
My wife, my children! what will 'come of them? They cold and hungry are! while I am drunk! I, miserable wretch! who should them feed! How can I bear the shame in which I'm sunk!
Against his love of drink the workman tried
In vain to struggle; for Intemperance
Held fast her victim in her iron chains.
Vice still imprints its mark upon the face:
He vanquished look'd, and crush'd! Honour and love
Both dead! Limbs trembling! Brain delirious!
Still more each day he wallows in excess,
Unable now to see its loathsomeness.
Anthony in the fear of God had lived,
Surrounded by domestic peace and joy;
No pleasures gross in that chaste circle known!
What needs he more? His little daughter's kiss
And little son's are all his heart desires.
With wife and them he passed his leisure hours.
Each morn he for his work fresh ardour found,
His mind at ease within a body sound.
One night Paul to his wretched home returned.
His wife and children on a spare hard bed
Their aching bodies tossed uneasily.
Their tortured limbs, on that poor pallet stretch'd,
And painful grin, were frightful to behold.
E'en in their sleep they breathed forth plaintive moans.
Their faces deep despair and misery spoke,
And bore the impress of misfortune's stroke.
"Come, come!" the drunkard, as he entered, cried;
"Wake up, and get me something here to eat!
I'm thirsty! Get me brandy! Will you stir?
Rise quickly! Come, now! People must believe
They're not to put themselves about for me!"
Livid, emaciated, rose his wife—
Her body showing many a deathly trace-
And earnest gazed upon his wine-blotched face.
"Look at your children! They are starving, too! Both they and I went supperless to bed
Last night! Behold them! Wherefore come you here?
They were asleep-In misery sleep is sweet!-
You've waked them! Leave us! Leave us to ourselves!
Away! Unnatural monster! Ne'er come-oh!
Begone, sir! We detest you! Hence! Away!
Better a hundred deaths than see you! Go!"
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