Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE PLAGUE OF OUR ISLE, by JANET HAMILTON Poet's Biography First Line: It is said, it is sung, it is written, and read Last Line: Less deadly by far than the plague of our isle. Alternate Author Name(s): Hamilton, Janet Thompson Subject(s): Alcoholism & Alcoholics; Social Protest; Temperance; Drunkards; Alcohol Abuse; Prohibition | ||||||||
IT is said, it is sung, it is written, and read, It sounds in the ear, and it swims in the head, It booms in the air, it is borne o'er the sea "There's a good time coming," but when shall it be? Shall it be when Intemperance, enthroned on the waves Of a dark sea of ruin, is scooping the graves Of thousands, while redly the dark current rolls With the blood of her victimsthe slaughter of souls? A canker is found in the bud, flower, and fruit Of human progressiona worm at the root Of social improvementa fiery simoom That sweeps o'er the masses to burn and consume. 'Tis found on the heaven-hallow'd day of repose Blest haven of rest from our toils and our woes! That voice of the drunkard, the oath, curse, and brawl, Are sounds of such frequence, they cease to appal. We see the grey father, the youth in his prime, Throw soul, sense, and feeling, health, substance, and time, In the cup of the drunkardthe mother and wife Hugs the snake in her bosom that 'venoms her life. We see the gaunt infant, so feeble and pale, Crave nature's sweet fluid from fountains that fail; Or run with hot poison, distill'd from the breast Of the motherO monstrous!a drunkard, a pest! We've seen, with her bright hair all clotted with blood, Lie cold on the hearthwhere at morning she stood The wife of a summera babe on her breast The husband a drunkardlet death tell the rest. And darker and deeper the horrors that shroud The brain of the drunkard; what dark phantoms crowd "The cells of his fancy," his couch of despair Is emptythe suicide slumbers not there. O why do we seek, do we hope to bestow "The colours of heaven on the dwellings of woe"? 'Tis temperance must level the strongholds of crime 'Tis temperance must herald the "coming good time." Then turn ye! oh, turn ye! for why will ye die? Ye shrink from the plague when its advent is nigh The Indian pestilence, the plague of old Nile Less deadly by far than the Plague of our Isle. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING, WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES TEMPER by CLARA EXLINE BOCKOVEN A TRUCKER DRIVES THROUGH HIS LOST YOUTH by DAVID BOTTOMS THE FIGHTING WORD by BERTON BRALEY THE METHOD OF THE MAD MULLAH by BERTON BRALEY ON A PROHIBITIONIST POEM by GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON A MAIDEN'S DREAM by ROBERT GREENE OUR PROGRAM by ARTHUR GUITERMAN A BALLAD FOUNDED ON A REAL INCIDENT WHICH OCCURED IN HIGH LIFE by JANET HAMILTON |
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