THERE'S a foe within our borders,
One of most malignant might,-
One who, fiend-like, loves the darkness,
Though oft smiting in the light.
Crowds of every rank and station,
Year by year, become his prey;
What of that? He pays state tribute;
Wise men license him to slay!
Here, 'tis some once wise bread-winner
Helpless struggles in his hold;
There, to graves untimely hastes he.
Men who senates once controlled;
Often from the very altar
Draggeth he a victim down :
Would you learn to scorn and hate him,
Only think such fate your own!
poor Bruin in some corn-field
Worked e'er so slight a skaith,
How we make quick war upon him!
How we hunt him to the death!
Not a wolf within our forests
But a price has on his head;
Meanwhile, 'mid our streets unchallenged,
Strikes his prey this demon dread.
Well ye know, ye guilty nations,
Alcohol, the fiend I sing,
Works ye more of ill than ever
Famine, war, or pest can bring.
These can only kill the body,
This corrupts and kills the soul;
Wise indeed are they who never
Touch or taste the "social bowl."
Talk of Juggernaut or Moloch!
Small would seem the whole amount
Of their victims, many-millioned,
Matched with Alcohol's account.
Well may Heaven indignant look on,
Well may good men mourn to see
Such a hell-delighting record—
Such law-sanctioned misery.
Think not ye whose better vision
Helpeth you the pit to shun
Which your brother, less observant,
Falls into and is undone-
Think not that a passing pity
Is the sole account ye owe;
Only such as try to save him
Guiltless of his fall can go.
Honour be to all whose chosen
Best-loved drink is "Adam's wine;"
Quickly may their good example
Thin the crowd at Bacchus' shrine,—
Leading them to break the fetters
Of a worse than Circean thrall,—
Earning thus all good men's praises,
And God's favour, best of all.
FROM THE SUBLIME TO THE RIDICULOUS.
(Lines suggested by a glance at the visitor's Album, kept at the Museum, Niagara Falls.)
GIVE up, ye would-be bards, your rhymes to tag here so,
In vain you rack your brains to paint Niagara.
A theme which even Milton's muse might beggar, you
Had better let alone when at Niagara.
About Lodore right well could Southey swagger, tho'
"Twould take ten thousand such to match Niagara.
To all who can stand boasting fit to stagger me,
I'd recommend a visit to Niagara.
Hear yon sleek slaver—not a bit in waggery-
Toasting the "Flag of Freedom" at Niagara!*
"You Canucks," quoth he, "need the starry flag o'er you
To make you worth your salt benorth Niagara!
You can't too quickly have that British rag o'er you
To disappear entirely from Niagara !”
He calculates some day to blast a crag or two,
And drain Lake Erie all up from Niagara.
He speculates, just as myself I drag away,
How Etna's throat would like to gulp Niagara !
*The above lines were penned previous to the abolition of slavery in the United States of America.
O cousins' cousins! what a set for brag are you!
When will you learn mere froth is not Niagara ?
But I must cease, lest they should lynch or dagger me;
Already they have fleeced me at Niagara.
WILLIAM LYON MACKENZIE AND HIS TRADUCERS.
(Written on his retirement from public life, in 1858.)
ASSES, avaunt! be careful how you kick!
The lion ye deem dead is only sick,—
Sick to the heart to see how all in vain
Is freedom won for slaves who hug their chain;
Sick at beholding knaves to honour mount,
The test of talent a well-cooked account,
Votes in the House, like apples, bought and sold,
Chiseling and quirks as statesmanship extoll'd,
A Punch-and-Judy Cabinet in power,
A French man-monkey hero of the hour,
While, over all, a HEAD-ill-omen'd name-
Smiles blandly on, and shields them in their shame!
'Tis true, ye dastards, that, to earn your hire,
Ye must abuse,-abuse then till ye tire;
The head at which in vain your filth is cast
Will honoured be when ye have flung your last,
Finding, as fitting for such scribbling knaves,
Your last, best recompense in nameless graves.
Alas for public virtue in a land
That brooks the curse of such a helot band!
The loathsomest of Egypt's plagues, I trow,
Were far less fatal to our weal than you,—
Creatures whose praise is censure-hate, no less
The highest compliment to uprightness.
O for the time when, weary of their thrall,
The people shall deal justice to you all,
And with befitting tar-and-feathers deck
Each well-whipped scoundrel up from heel to neck!
A retribution righteously due,—
Hanging's too good for wretches such as you!
"Love's a fire that needs renewal
Of fresh beauty for its fuel."-CAMPBELL.
WERE the vain bard who thus could write, but once
Blest with the smile of one dear girl I know,
The joy exceeding born of her love-glance
He surely would not for a world forego.
In vain would any mortal try to see,
Unmoved, the wond'rous beauty of her face!
Which, as her humour for the time may be,
Is grave or gay, yet ever full of grace.
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