AN ODE DEDICATED TO THE TEMPERANCE SOCIETY.
"Water is the best of elements."
WELL Sung, and truly, thou old "bird of Jove,"
A proverb hast thou wove, for all good people;
Arthur and I around the world might rove,
From high Acropolis to St. Paul's steeple,
Nor find such well epitomized sobriety,
To paint upon the flag of our society.
"Hoc signo vinces," Hale, unfurl the banner;
Let it flaunt up, and flout the gin-swoln clouds;
Shout now, a long, and clear, and bold Hosannah,
And herald life to the pale, Styx-like crowds,
Of" Five-points" wretches, dying! by the Mass !
Of "the best of liquors, at three cents per glass!"
Not death, but life our bloodless triumphs yield,
Crowned with the joy of souls redeemed from slavery;
But could we tempt the old jailor to the field,
There were a desperate fight for brother Avery—
Gods! how he'd stamp his heel into his head,
And crush, even when the monster was stone dead;
The dragon thief, that steals away men's brains ;—
Good Lot first cursed him, and vine-desser Noah ;
The brothel's god, e'er since, confessed he reigns,
Leading the nightly Bacchanalian roar.
Dread devil! hear him chuckling at the banquet,
Say, wilt thou not a single gentleman quit ?
"The glasses sparkle on the board," and song, And merry joke, and jest they wanton banter ;And he is there. See, see him push along
With busy speed, the just refilled decanter;
"Drink, drink boys, drink, and drown grim Care, and Sorrow,
Be drunk to night, and sober on the morrow."
The clock strikes three. The gentle breath of morning
Fans the hot cheek of a zig-zag street walker;
Why is that mud his spattered coat adorning?
What dialect affects our late glib talker?
Strange! vest unbuttoned-pockets turned outside-
Hat pyramidical-soiled cravat untied!
These be thy half cooked dinners, old Constrictor,
Thy victims, ready buttered with saliva,
Soon to be mashed and munched, as in the picture
Of fated Laocoon-pained, fruitless striver;
Have pity! wretch! Gloat not so on thy ration,
Or moderate, at least, thy tight squassation.
O, for the early days, that knew not art!
When, at the well, Bethuel's gentle daughter
Confessed her love, and pledged her virgin heart,
In a pure bowl of dimpling-cold spring water.
"Drink, drink my Lord," the maiden to the camel-dri
But not a drop she gave him that could get into his head.
And thou, Castalia, where is now thy fount,
Whose chrystal, erst, threw back young Poets' faces,-
Up, on the top of the Parnassian mount,—
The Muses' home, the loved haunt of the Graces ?
Is't true that Adrian filled thee up with stones?
The drunken Vandal! Curses on his bones !
Home of my fathers! can I e'er forget
The pearly gem, set in thy sloping hill?
The heated willows bending down, to wet
Their fanning branches in the pebbled rill?
The swallow, o'er the mirror skimming-dipping-
And now and then a stray mosquito nipping?
Oh water, wave, spring, rivulet, well, stream!
When art thou most the idol of my praise?
Still art thou Castaly.-In sooth, I deem
Even Woodworth might a decent stanza raise,
Inspired by thee ;—yes, yes ;—I'll wage a ducat,—
Even he might feel the God, and sing some rotten bucket.
The diamond dripping from the brimming bowl,
The clear, deep streamlet, kissing its green sides,
The swelling river's proud and lordly roll,
Old ocean's bosom, and his rushing tides,
Rich sources are of holy contemplation ;—
Diviner, boasted not the famed old Roman nation.
Come; enter this green lane; the sun is hot;—
Here shielded, thank the closely dove-tailed trees;
Stoop, stoop, and drink—this is Egeria's grot.
Fall, man, upon thy bended hands, and knees,
And cool thy lip, and bless this happy minute-
Stay-wilt thou have "a little brandy" in it?
No! poison not the wholesome living streams,
Nor turn their waves, into the dead Red Sea,
Putrid with Pharoah's army; where, it seems,
No bird may live, nor shrub or floweret be ;-
Where the chance pilgrim, thinks it providential,
If he survive the brazen sky, and simoon pestilential.
Oblivious are years, since Bacchus, flushed
With Chian, urged the lion-mated Tiger,
Impetuous; and on to triumph rushed,
From farthest Ind to heavy rolling Niger;
With syren, music, madness, thyrsus, cymbal, Satyr, and Faun, Silenus, Pan, and vine wreathed pipe and timbrel,
A drunken multitude. But times are changed;
The insolvent God here claims no sacred shrines;
Save, where by grateful Aldermen, are ranged
Long promised shambles, to retail “high wines.”
O! provident regard for cheap fruition!
Erin-nys staggering, thanks ye for the licensed imbibition.
Save, that in yonder secret Alms-house cellar,
The rusty key turns seldom, on that rare
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