The Rhode Island American, And General Advertiser

POETRY.
FROM THE EVENING POST.
THE WORM OF THE STILL.
I have found what the learn'd seem so puzzled to tell,
The true shape of the Devil, and where is his hell:
Into serpents of old crept the author of ill,
But Satan now works as a Worm of the Still
Of all his migrations, this last he likes best
How the arrogant reptile here raises his crest!
His head winding up from the tail of his plan
Till the worm stands erect o'er the prostrated man,
Here he joys to transform by his magical spell.
Tho sweet milk of the earth, to an essence of hell;
Fermented our food, and corrupted our grain,
To famish the stomach, and madden the brain.
By his work of LIME, what distraction and fear!
By the gleam of its light, what pale spectres appear!
What orgies the nights of the drunkard display!
But how black with sin! how benighted his day!
With drams it begins, and with drams it must end,
A dram is his country, his mistress, his friend,
Till his ossified heart hates itself at the last,
And a dram nerves his hand for the death doing blast.
Then think not that Satan, still plotting our harm,
Has ever forsaken his serpentine form :
Ah! this serpent will never want poison to kill
While the fat of our fields feeds the Worm of the Still.