Phenix Gazette

From the Vermont Chronicle.
THE CUP OF INTEMPERANCE.
"Away! away! there's blood upon thy brim!"
No, offer not the cup to me,
I would not see its flow;
Its dark and poison'd brim I'd flee,
Its guilt I may not know.
Think'st thou because in youth I'm sad,
And bitter thoughts are mine,
And life in sombre robe is clad,
That I shall seek the wine?
What though my cherished hopes are fled,
And now this heart is sore:
What though these eyes no more shall shed
The bitter scalding tear;
What though a Simoom's withering blight,
Hath swept it o'er my soul,
Would'st that I cease to feel its night
By draining deep the bowl?
Why tempt the burning lips to taste
The poison lurking there?
Why make this heart an utter waste,
A dwelling for despair?
What if thy scorch'd and fever'd brain
Shall wild with anguish grow,
Shall I the wildering wine cup drain
To quench its fire? O, no!
Though grief hath set her Cain-like mark
Upon my youthful brow,
And life's bright scenes to me are dark,
Uncheering in their glow;
The soul to wasting fires a prey,
The child of misery,
And sorrow o'er life's rugged way
My portion still shall be;
Though life hath little joy for me,
And friends I loved are gone:
And while I brave this stormy Sea,
I feel that I'm alone;
Though life's pale glimmering lamp is dim,
And soon will set in night,
The cup, with blood upon its brim,
Shall never quench its light.