Poems (Emma M. Ballard Bell)/The Specter
THE SPECTER.
Among the demon forms that wander o'er
Our world, those shapes of sin, first causes great
Of ev'ry earthly ill and ev'ry woe,
A specter walks, the victims of whose wiles,
Lured down to death, in numbers far exceed
Those slain upon the battle-fields of earth.
Through hours of night, at midday, at all times,
Dauntless and unabashed he stalks abroad.
And many are the gifted and the proud
Who fall into his snares and lose their all;
The consciousness within of hearts upright
And pure; all hope of happiness and peace
In this the present life or that beyond;
While this destroyer writes upon each one,
In characters that may be read by all,
His name—Intemperance.
Where'er doth come
This soul-polluting presence, shadows fall
More dark than those which hang around the tomb.
For as his footsteps o'er the threshold pass
Of homes where joy abode, how soon
From those who watch the loved one's fall, departs
The sunlight of the soul! In vain for them,
So far as aught of gladness is concerned,
The morn, her fingers tinged with roseate hues,
Above day's banner glorious unfurls,
O'er whose blue field noontide throws cloudy folds;
And eve, with gentle aspect coming on,
A gold and purple lining gives to each,
Then closer wraps the gorgeous folds, till from
The earth fades out the glad and beauteous day.
So come and go the sunset, morn, and noon,
No more with images of beauty fraught
To those sad hearts who in each joyous thing
See naught but bitter mock'ry of their grief.
Our world, those shapes of sin, first causes great
Of ev'ry earthly ill and ev'ry woe,
A specter walks, the victims of whose wiles,
Lured down to death, in numbers far exceed
Those slain upon the battle-fields of earth.
Through hours of night, at midday, at all times,
Dauntless and unabashed he stalks abroad.
And many are the gifted and the proud
Who fall into his snares and lose their all;
The consciousness within of hearts upright
And pure; all hope of happiness and peace
In this the present life or that beyond;
While this destroyer writes upon each one,
In characters that may be read by all,
His name—Intemperance.
Where'er doth come
This soul-polluting presence, shadows fall
More dark than those which hang around the tomb.
For as his footsteps o'er the threshold pass
Of homes where joy abode, how soon
From those who watch the loved one's fall, departs
The sunlight of the soul! In vain for them,
So far as aught of gladness is concerned,
The morn, her fingers tinged with roseate hues,
Above day's banner glorious unfurls,
O'er whose blue field noontide throws cloudy folds;
And eve, with gentle aspect coming on,
A gold and purple lining gives to each,
Then closer wraps the gorgeous folds, till from
The earth fades out the glad and beauteous day.
So come and go the sunset, morn, and noon,
No more with images of beauty fraught
To those sad hearts who in each joyous thing
See naught but bitter mock'ry of their grief.
The vigils kept through many midnight hours,
The bitter, bitter tears that silent fall,
Beheld by none save the All-seeing Eye,
Are all by God's recording angel kept
In His own book.
Remember, ye who urge
This demon on, that ye may, from the spoil
And ruin by him wrought, your coffers fill,
For your wrong deeds just punishment shall come,
And dealt by Him Who vengeance calls His own.
The bitter, bitter tears that silent fall,
Beheld by none save the All-seeing Eye,
Are all by God's recording angel kept
In His own book.
Remember, ye who urge
This demon on, that ye may, from the spoil
And ruin by him wrought, your coffers fill,
For your wrong deeds just punishment shall come,
And dealt by Him Who vengeance calls His own.