Methinks, a weird, wild voice I hear Whispering in the night-time drear,— A cry so weary and full of pain I listen to catch the sound again. It seems a mournful, pleading cry, Intense with terrible agony; Now, a piteous, childlike wail Heard afar in the distant vale.
Perchance, 'tis but some night-bird's song, Perched the woodland trees among; Or but a dream,—Earth is so fair And glorious in her beauty rare. The Night-wind, o'er me passing now, With touch caressing fans my brow, Saying sadly, "'Tis real and true This pitiful story I whisper to you!
"Though God has made the earth so fair, Shadows and sunshine mingle there. E'en in a world so full of light Sin has left its terrible blight. Deep are the footprints made by crime,— Stern and dread as the march of time; And suffering thousands weeping now, Plead for our help in their night of woe.
"Intemperance sad work has made; Fair hopes and homes in ruin laid; While men look on with folded hands, Whose strength and skill could rivet bands Of iron, to bind this Monster strong, Who drives his blinded, maddened throng To the fearful margin of despair, To sink in blackest darkness there.
"A throng is following in their train,— Their's the sorrowful cry of pain,— Pleading and praying God to save Loved ones from this yawning grave; Suffering, woe and deep disgrace Written on each tear-stained face; While the world has crushed them down With its cold and cruel frown.
"Others far in the distance wait, Watching, fearing some dear one's fate, Secure in boasted strength of will, Yet surely onward drifting still. With merry laugh, with jest and song, The Tempter lures his prey along, From gilded saloon to the vilest den Where sin has blackened the souls of men."
Ye sellers of the poisonous draught By weak, blind brothers madly quaffed! God will not always chide in vain! Think not a moment's peace to gain By your vile work! O let us pray His hand this fearful tide will stay! Then there shall cease this bitter wail From drunkards' victims, wan and pale.
