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Maps, platas, charts, ate, may ba filmad at diffarant raduction ratios. Thosa too larga to ba entirely included in one exposure ara filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartas, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent Atre filmte A das taux da reduction diff Arents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour Atre reproduit en un soul ciichA, 11 est film* A partir da I'angia supArleur gauche, do gauche A droite, et do haut en has. an prenant ie nombre d'imagas nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrant la mAthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 1^ r^'-' ^-z JLl A ooisSSEonom of X^ IW •!-# ^ J S* ! ORieilSrAL POEMS OK TEHPEKAirOE ABV OTIIES SCKIICTS^ Bt a. B., Oatxndish Boad. >»»^pW» M «^■'■, ii ^'.^'l "9^iiiP^^i>'"^"<^^^^"P^ii<^iMi""ippppiipiiinP9^ i'V- ■I. >. ■J, . ife* ^^Kti..\^'*- ^ , h ^^1 ^^ g^ k m TllU ISLAND ROSE; ▲ COI^IiECTION OF ORIGINAL POEMS ON TEMPERANCE AND OTHER SUBJECTS, By A. R., Cavendish Road. CHARLOTTETOWN : HENRY COOPER, PRINTER, KENT STREET. 1869. .i IllljMi^ iiL ••• • *} V- ''■ r n ] pl£ tin to) till fri th mi lai ini it, ar WJ ca sp ^e P€ th hf re m INTRODUCTION. Reluctantly, and with a great many misgivings as to what reception It will meet, I have at last ventured to place this little Work before the public eye. Though some time has elapsed since I composed the greater part of the following pieces, X have not had sufflclent courage to get them published until now. Urged by the solicitations of friends, I have consented to make a trial of them. The subject of the greater part of the pieces is Intemperance, the evil effects of which are well known, to the soitow of many broken-hearted wives and mothers throughout the land. Having always been a foe to intemperance, and hav- ing seen and read a great deal of the evils attendant upon it, — how many of its victims have fallen from splendor and Independence to the lowest depths o. poverty and want, — and as it is the duty of everyone to do all they can to arrest the progress of this monster vice, that is spreading devastation and death throughout the land, I Ibave composed this little Work, thinking that it may, perhaps, prove instrumental in turning some drunkard from the error of his ways. If so, my humble eflbrts will not have been In vain. That it may meet with a favorable reception by all classes, and that it may be the means of Accomplishing some good, is the earnest wish of the writer. A. R. fJat«nffUh Road, January l«f, 1869. 17 CONTENTS. PAOR. Introduction, ..,. Itt The Shipwreck, 1 The Dying Boy, 7 The Reclaimed Drunkard's Address, 9 Robert Hayes, 12 Ijines on the Death of Messrs. Allan and Callbeok,. ...,,., 28 The Friend for Me 29 The Fatal Glass SO A Drunkard's Wife, , 4? Touch Not the Wine Cup, ** Lines written on the Death of the Hon. T. D. McGlee 44 Blighted Hopes, ,.. 47 The Miser, 54 tiament of a Youth Dying in a Foreign Land, ,. 5^ THE ISLAND ROSE- THE SHIPWREOIC. O'er the calm and tranquil ocean, Calm and peaceful all around^ Glides a ship with easy motion, And she now is homeward bound. Now with what fond expectation Happy hearts so joyous beat I Friends and parents, fond relations, Soon they now expect to meet. See that youth ! his face is radiant— ** I will soon be home," he cries, ** Then I'll meet my lovely Mary- All my friends I will surprise." Sad they were when I was leaying, Leaving my lov'd native shore; Sadly Mary wept, believing She would fee my face no mon^ tHX BOSS. I)«art8t friends, so kind and loTmg^ Urged me fondly not to roam; But now I am tired of roving, I will stay with them at hotne. How my mother's eyes will glisten When her son before her stands, And how eagerly she'll listen While I tell of foreign lands I But a threatening cloud is rising, " Captain, is there danger near : T'was BO fine, it is surprising, But I think we need not fear.** ' " Fear to me it is a stranger,'* Cries the captain, ** though the storial Wildly rages, lives endanger, Yet, I never feel alarm. " In this life are many trials- Trials on the sea and land — Still they all are sent, remember, From a loving Father's hand.*' Ah ( the cloud is larger growing,' fivening now is drawing nigh ; Yes, a storm is surely rising, thisk and gloomy is the sky.^ I ■ tm Bosi Umoft home 1 bnt 0, th« ttmptel Now is raging dark and wild ; On this dreadful night the captain Giyes his orders calm and mild. Home, with all its fond endearmentir Home, so loved by many there,-— Now. their fondest hopes are blighiede Now they weep in deep despair. • Mirth has ceased, and fear and terror Stamped on almost every brow ; And the wind is wilder rising, — Who can guide in safety now. " Captain, see the fate before ui,* Cries a worthy seaman brave ; ♦• Wild the storm is gathering o'tr m We will meet a watery grave." •* Yes, I see,** the captain answeri;— Calmly did he raise his eyes,— " See the tempest wildly raging. See the angry b^lows rise. *^ Yet I trust in my Redeemer ; Calmhr do I wait his will ; He can calm the raging billowi^ He can bid the storm be still. .4 A ' m^ SH^HB memmmmm TSB BOflOi. ** If wtldnk, trembliog sailor, nerd's a better home on high, There will Christians meet together, And their joys will nsTer die*'' Bark I a Toice is wildly shrieking, •• We are sinking— save, save T Fast the noble ship is leaking, Wave ir rolling over wave. And the yonth that in the morning Talked of home and friends, so gay, Now is speaking to the eaptab, Listen what he has to eay : " Captain, listen for a moment, For a few words I wonld speak ; If yen reach the shore in safety. Tell my parents not to weep* " Tell them that— the thought shonld ekeer ikom- Though on eartlrwe meet no more, That their son will yet be near them, On a brighter, happier shoie. '* And my Mary— oh, so gently The sad tidings to her break,— ^ GiTo to her this little present, Bid her k%%p it for my sake ; THl lOM. ko«— ** Tell her that I loved her fondlf , Bre I sank beneath the waye, That her true and conetant Heorf Now has found a watery grave. ** Cheer my parents' hearts in sorrow, Tell them that I feared not death. That I prayed for them sincerely, Almost with my latest breath. " Give to them this little Bible, Tell them oft to read it through* That it proved to me a comfort When that death appeared in view* ** Captain, tell them I wai happy^ — Long ago I did prepare For that bright and heavenly kingdoms- Tell them for to meet me there. " You have yet one chance of safety. You can swim and reach the shore» While I sink with many others In the deep, to rise no more." ** No, dear Henry,** cried the captain, ** To a happier home you'll rise ; There your joys will be eternal. Bright, unfading io the skies< TMl R0«1. '* There no Borrows e'er can enttr, Happiness will never end ; May we meet again in glory ^--^ Now farewell, my dearest friend.'*'^ 0, tVas in this trying hour, When all earthly hopes were gone. That they felt religion's power, Then it proved to them a balm. Though the waves are wildly rolling, Still they do their comrades tell, *' Though we sink beneath the ocean, We are happy, all is well." Wilder grows the angry tempest. Wildly now the ship is tossed, Mortals are in terror screaming, ^* We are sinking, we are lost t " Yes, the ship indeed is sinking, Not a ray of hope is left. Soon will parents, friends, and brothers Of their lov'd ones be bereft. Out upon the boisterous ocean, Struggling now their lives to save, But the mighty waves o'enHialm ^eai, Tbey have found a watery |f are. THD BOSX. AH are gone,— their strnggks euded*-^ fiave the captaiQ and the mate, They are saved to tell the story Of their Their lonely hours to cheer, With joy the mother's heart was filled, She did hot know a fear. She did not see the heavy storm That was about to break Upon her head, and of he? hopes To make a total wreok. 0, had the one thing oeedfol Been but by them possessed, 14 ¥EB BOfll. Ik- How happy would they both hare b«tii, How truly have beoD bleats But aht they had no treaaurea Laid up for them above ; This world's fahe fleeting pleaauraa Too fondly did they love* Soon Robert found those pleasurea Were all vain and corrupt, And turned to the false pleasut^i of The intoxicating cup. No longer in that beauteous horn* Did peace and pleasure reign ^ For he a drunkard's life began — A«drunkard did remain. O, how it grieved his father's haarl To see his mad career,— For unto him this erring son Had always been so dear. He was a lawyer, and beloved By neighbours ail around ; No blemish on his character Before this could be found. " How bright his prospects onod did look ; With wealth and talents tare, * His father watched o'er htm wiili pMm And fobd parental oar«. But DOW his hopes were dashdd awa^i Dark did the future seeing that this sad reality Had only heen a dream ,^^ A dream, that when the night had paflttdf All grief had fled away, And the sad visions all had fled With dawning of the day. But ah, the morning brought no joy To his afllicted heart, For from this wayward son h« U^fi He soon would have to part. For he was aged,— time had marked Deep furrows on his brow 5 To bear this sad and dreadful grief ^ Alas, he knew not how. Ah, sad indeed it was to sei His son thus gone astray, And wandering far from paths of From wisdom 's pleasant way. His mother, many a year befort, Had in the grave been laid> O, if her kind injunctions had Been by her son obeyed ; He would not now hare turned Mide In paths of sin and shame, Nor grieyed the hearts of all his friends Who did with him remain. But oh, his young wife*s tender heart Seemed to he nearly hroke ; Her hopes now all were hiighted by This unexpected stroke. She felt the sad and woeful change, Andbitterly she wept Oft in the still and silent night, While others peaceful slept. For him she left a happy home, For him did trials brave; And now most earnestly she tried Her husband for to save. All her entreaties useless were, She could not make him turn, And in deep anguish and despair For him she loved did mourn. Oft he would promise to reform, But oft the promise broke ; To save him from a drunkard's grave, She feared there was no hope. And often, borne along the streaai THE ROSE. Of sad and mournful thoughti She wept in deep despair, and when Her husband knew it not. She thought of all her happy days That were forever past ; Those hours of hope and joy had been Too beautiful to iabt. Alas ! such bright and happy days She never more shall know ; Before her nothing now she sees But misery and woe. Her husband now by drink debaaedi Who once so kind and true Had been in happier days, when first He came her heart to woo. 'Twas but a few short years since he Had to the alter led His lovely bride, so young and fair, And to her had been wed. The future bright to her appeared; Her'a seemed a happy lot ; Her Robert's love her.life hact oheeied. No other joy she sought. But now those happy day a are p^ Passed never, to retupi— 17 T i 18 THE ROSiJ. Alone she now is left, alas ! In sorrow for to mourn. Her little son oft wept to see His mother look so sad ; Though young, yet for his mother he Such strong affection had. How many an hour in grief she spent — How many a night of woe — For Robert, almost every night, Did to the tavern go. One evening as she sat alone, O'ercome by grief and fear,— 'Twas late, and she expected soon Her husband's step to hear,— Her little son had staid up late, His father for to meet. But growing tired at last he had Fell very sound asleep. At last she heard him coming home,— * But 0, how sad to tell, So much intoxicated, he Upon the doorstep fell. In wild alarm she quickly rose And opened wide the door ; Scarce could this fallen, drunken man Walk straight across the floor. THE KOSEt 19 'M The little child was wakened by The noise his father made ; But ah I the sunlight in his eye It soon began to fade. No kind an.d loving words to him * His father now did speak, And he began to weep as if His little heart would break. For oft when he had waited up His father for to see, With kind and gentle words he spoke, And took him on his knee. But, stupefied by drink that night, Did not his child regard, — So well he loved his father that He thought this very hard. The mother took her weeping child Up to his little bed ; And then lay down awhile to rest Her weary, acheing head . She from her sleepless bed arose, Soon as the day did dawn, — Is there no one to pity now This sad afflicted one ? Yes ; there is One who from above Looks down with pitying eye ; 20 THE ttOSE. w He know8 lier grief, Ho sees her tears, For He is ever nigh. 'Tis but in love He ctiklitin^s^now, To turn her heart to Him, That she may leave the paths of Woe, The deadly paths of sin. Late in the day her husband rose, Down to his breakfast came ; His looks did bear the marks of vioe^ Of conscious guilt and shame. How changed he looked from what he waa But a few months before ; He then was temperate,— now the marks Of drunkenness he bore. The child unto his father ran.. Soon as he did him see, Who kindly spoke to him and took Him up upon his knee. '' Pa," he said, '' last night for you rbitterly did cry I '' ^' Why did you weep for me, my child>— * Tell me the reason why ? " " Because you were so sick, Papa, 'Twas that that made me weep ; I wept a long, long time, until THK ROSE. At last I fell asleep. What was it made you then so siclt^ •Papa, can you tell ? " The father did not answer, for The cause he knew too well. His wife began to weep— her tears Adown her cheeks did flow, To think this child of tender years So soon the cause must know. Soon as he saw his mother weep He left his father's knee, And joined his artless cries with hers,. So sad and mournfully. And when poor Robert turned his thoughts Upon the life he led, He wiped away the trickling tears, And wished that he was dead. Hie heart was touched by grief to see His wife in such despair, — To see her happy once had been. His first and only care. He went up to her then, and did Her tenderly embrace, But still most bitterly she wept And turned away her fi^ce, 21 1 1^ i THE EOSK He told her that he nevermore Would give her cause to grieve ; But oft he told her this before,— She could not him believe. " do not promise this," she said, " Unto me any more, For oft such promises you broke, So many times before. You wish for death,— 'tis 1 who shouldr So worn by heavy grief, For surely to me now it would Be such a blest relief. "Were it not I would leave my child A helpless orphan boy, I gladly would this very night Just lay me down and die." He rose, embraced her tenderly, And tried her heart to cheer. But 'twas in vain, the future looked To her both dark and drear. " Mary, never more Pll cause Your gentle heart to grieve ; Will you not listen to me now, Will you not me believe. 'Tis I who ought to weep, for I THE ROSE. Did so myself disgrace ; But I will turn and be once more The temperate Robert Hayes '* How weak is he 1 in vain he tries In his own strength to gain From this destructive, baneful vice, A freedom to obtain. He tries, but he is weak, — he sinks Down nevermore to rise, — when will man upon the brink Of ruin e'er be wise. ** My heart is nearly broke," she said. And fast her tears did flow, ** But soon I'll rest my weary head. And fly from grief and woe. It grieves my heart to think upon The ruin that must come ; 1 and my helpless child will soon Be left without a home. " flatter not yourself at all That you will ever turn ; For still the fiery alcohol Will strong within you burn. In former happy years, by you ^0 tavern then was sought; 23 24 THE «osir. I i! But now to gain the li<}uor strong It is your only thoughts (< I Twas then you never happy seemed But when you were at home ; But now, with every drunkard vile^ In search of liquor roam. In former days, now past and gone^ How happy then was I, And you content and cheerful was, And sorrow oame not nigh ! " How oft I've thought, while other men tJnto the taverns went, And all their earnings from their wive»- And children there they spent, That while their wives in sorrow wept You staid with me at home, But what I pitied others for, Upon myself has come. " Why did I live such days to s^ ? Why was I ever born ? Thus to be left in misery. So weary and forlorn. My life to me a burden is, Buc soon will all be o'er, Soon will I safely landed be Upon that happy shore. THE BOSfi. .*' There grief and sorrow is not known, There will I ever rest, Ko more to wgh, so weak and worn, So weary and opprest. And 0, I know that He who feeds The ravens when they cry Will look upon and sately guard My gentle orphan boy." She ceased ; her heart was overcome^ By deep and heavy grief. Poor Mary, soon from all your woes You'll find a blest relief. Soon will your drunken husband be Left here on earth to sigh, Whilst you will fly to happier scenes, To brighter realms on high. For she had chose the better part, Like Mary had of old, The heavenly riches better far Than all earth's glittering gold. In trusting faith she humbly prayed That soon the time might come When Christ the heavenly shepherd Would call his wanderer home. A while in grief and want did she Prag out her weary life j iry % i 26 THE ROSE. Ah ! well she learned what 'twas to be A wretched drunkard's wife. His wealth was at the tavern spent, And she, so worn and weak, Had for to gain a livelihood A menial labor seek. But 'twas not long, for death soon came : Her trials all did cease ; No grief can e'er afflict her now, For all is joy and peace. For to that land of brightest day No sorrow cometh nigh, The tears will all be wiped away From every weeping eye. But Robert's course was nothing checked, For lower still he sank, For of the liquor strong he still So very freely drank. Yes, he would drain the fierj' cup As long as he had breath. Until, in want and misery, He died a drunkard's death. Ye drunkards all a warning take By this sad, truthful tale ; Strive now the evil to forsake, THE ROSE. strive, and do not fail. Not in your own strength,— you are weak,- But there is One obove Who strength will give, and safely keep You in His tender love. And if you ask you will receive Help for to overcome ; No longer cause your friends to grieve O'er yon, the erring one. No longer grieve your weeping wife, Her heart no longer pain, But quit this sad and deadly vice, And be a man again. If you have children, do not them A bad example set. For what they learn in youthful days They wall not soon forget. Then from the deadly poison turn, Before all hope is fled. And you are in the silent grave, And numbered with the dead, 27 ^ 28 THE ROSE. i: m LINES ON THE DEATH OF MESSBS. ALLEN AND OALLBEOE. They are gone» and no more will their friends hear in gladness The voices of those they so tenderly loved ; Now are their hearts filled with sorrow and sadness, For those young men so quickly from earth were removed. Their mothers are grieving, all hope seems departed, They mourn for their sons, but they find *tis in vain, And through life journey on, though almost broken hearted, But hoping above for to meet them again. Young Callbeck and Allan will long be remembered, As fond friends in sorrow will think o'er the past, Although with the dead those young mea haye been numbered. Still long will their mem'ry in loving hearts last. Little they thought on the morn that they started, Across the wide ocean intending to sail, That they from this earth would w soon be departed And that all their plans for the future should fail. Wild blew the wind, — 'twas in vain they were striving Assistance to gain, ere a grave they had met; Onward the gale their frail boat still was driving, At He Pre No Th I I- I THE ROSK. 2U .EN AND s hear in removed. arted, vain, t broken ared, t, ive been At last in the ocean so deep it upset. Hearts that with joy and with hope once were beating, Preaming that pleasures for them were in store, No more on earth will each other be greeting, The sun in its glory for them rise no more. Short on this earth has been their sojourning. Sudden and quickly they were called away ; Friends and relations in sorrow are mourning, Still when the call conies we all must obey. By this sad event should gay mortals take warning, Awhile cease their laughter* their folly and mirth. For as joyful we rise in the dawn of the morning, We know not what sorrows a day may bring forth* I rted I iving THE FBIEND FOB ME. The friend who with a flattering tongue Pretends so true to be, But is a false deceitful one. Is not the friend for me. The friend tirho in the hour of grief A comforter will be, « THE ROSE. And strives the mourner to relieve, that's the friend for me. The friend who when distresses come, Will then in terror flee, Again in search of pleasure roam, Is not the friend for me. The friend who long will true remain, Through want and poverty. Through storm and sunshine still the same, O that's the friend for me. «»«**i THE PATAL GLASS. Intemperate friends, come listen to The tale I now relate, • And shun the vice of drinking rum Before you seal your fate. spurn the serpent from j^our hands Ere you have felt his sting, Which on you endless misery Is almost sure to bring. THE ROSE. CI Georgo Morgan being a young man Of constitution weak, His father thought some easier life Than a farmer's he should seek ; So he sent j^oung George to College, — But little did he know How soon the temptations there Would prove his overthrow. He began, as many a drunkard did, By taking but a glass, Then bad companions led him on In evil ways so fast, His father took him home to see If this career he'd stop, But he thought that he could never do Without a little drop. There was one whose gentle spirit Was overcome with grief. His misery fell like mildew Upon the tender leaf; It was a lovely maiden who Had given him her heart ; Their love for many a year had grew, They thought they could not part. How often for young Morgan This maiden's tears did flow, :^ 1!i 32 THE fiOSE. Oft she had thought that with him No sorrows she should know ; But although she loved him truly, Well as she loved her life, She felt that she could not consent To be a drunkard's wife. '^ • His father every means had tried To lead poor George aright ; How oft in earlier days he looked On him with fond delight. His poor mother by his conduct , With grief was overcome, She always loved her George so well — He was her only son. Perhaps some intemperate young man. Who may this story read, May be engaged to some fair maid, If so, he should take heed, Lest in that path so far he go That back he cannot turn, And leave the fair one all her life In sorrow for to mourn. Poor Margaret's grief was so intense Her health began to fail. For all that she could* say to George THE ROSE. It was of no avail. At length, one Sabbath morning, She did her parents tell, That evening she intended To bid her Geo'rge farewell. That evening she sent word to George The time and place to meet ; But how can I paint the anguish, The mteery so deep, "* That both did suffer during This sad brief interview, For their love for many a*long year Had been iincere and true. How hard it was her fondest hopes To sever at one stroke, And bitterly she felt it, for Her heart was almost broke ; But she had gathered strength at last To give her lover up, Unless he'd quit forevermore The deadly, maddening cup. The place where they agreed to meet. Was a most lovely spot ; How oft in happier days they had This pleasant arbor sought ; 83 34 THE ROSE. But now those happy days were past, Those hours of peace and joy, How soon intemperance did all Their fondest hopes destroy. Ah ! slow was then her step indeed, And heavy was her heart, When for to bid young George farewell That evening she did start. Adown her pale^nd lovely cheeks The tears were flowing fast, As she thought that this interview Would likely be their last. George was at the place appointed, And as the maid drew near He said, " I am rejoiced to meet You now, my Margaret dear. Will you not give me your hand ?" (For she turned from him away,) At last the weeping maiden These words to him did say : " George, you know that to you I had given my whole heart; I fondly hoped that naught but death Would cause us for to part. I thought to walk through this fair world THE ROSE. 35 With you, love, by my side, But now I find that happiness It is to me denied. ^ " The happy vision now is past, I must bid you farewell, What anguish this does tause me No tongue on earth can tell. I cannot give up all my hopes Of happiness above, ^. Although that better than my life George Morgan I do love." ^' Margaret," the young man replied, " The promise you did make You told me many and many a time You never would it break." " yes, I well remember now The promise made to you, I at that time intended To keep that promise true. *' But since that time you've gone astray, And quaffed the maddening bowl, I fear your ruin it will prove Of body and of soul. The path of duty I have sought, With many a tear and prayer, 86 THE KOSE. m And in it I must walk^ though hard It may to you appear." Said George, " I fear some other one Has your affections gained, I know a woman's fancy Is liable to change." " George, how can you say so. No one else I could adore, — But now of these memorials I have no^eed any more." She handed him a package, And as she turned away, He gazed on her retiring form In anguish and dismay. And when that she had passed away Entirely from his view, From the package that she gave him Some letters forth he drew. 'Twas the letters he had sent to her Before he did begin To walk in paths of wickedness. Of folly and of sin. Some more tokens of affection too I He found within also, And as he thought of happier days His tears began to flow. ;f THE ROSE, :3 1 ''0 1 am called a drunkard now By even her," he tried, • *' And all my hopes are now laid low, She will not be my bride. I am utterly forsaken now, She has bid me farewell, And the misery that now I feel My tongue can never tell." He did not know that by a friend He had been overheard, 'Twas a brother of his Margaret's To whom I have referred. * Seeing George so much affected, From his hiding place withdrew, And stood before his early friend, A friend sincere and true. He seized him by the hand and said, *^ George, my dearest friend, I hope this heartfelt sorrow Will cause you to amend ; For others' sake and for your own, Leave off your evil ways, And for help this to accpmplish -Go to the Throne of Grace." •* My friends," he cried, " despise me now,, I do not wish to live ;" 38 THE EOSE. " But if you turn from drinking, George, They all will yet forgive." " no, they won't forgive me, They view me with contempt,— Th-it I should ever come to this I'm sure I never dreamt." " can you not, dear George," he said, *' 1 oa my poor sister's sake^ Th^^^e cvii habits off from you Will vou not try to break ?" '' no, Aie vire^ despise me, She has forsook me too, And all my hopes are vanished Like as the morning dew." '' George, there is another one Who still for you does grieve. And surely for her sake you will Those evil habits leave ; It is your aged mother, Oh, For her the rum forsake, Before her loving heart you cause In sorrow for to break." * *' yes, my mother loves me still," The j'oung man then replied, < " To turn me frora my evil ways If THE ROSE. How often she has tried 1 And when my father oepsured her For being to me mild, Her firm rei^y would always be, ^ George is ray only child/ ** how much grief and anguish I've caused my mother dear ! I know that for her wayward son She has shed many a tear. " George, 'tis in your power now To fill her heart with joy ; O turn, and do not all your hopes Of happiness destroy." In silence, a few moments They sat together there ; For George his friend did utter • A brief but earnest prayer. At last George bowed down his head, His tears afresh did flow, And he resolved that very night To leave the paths of woe. There was a temperapce lecture Delivered on that night ; George went and enrolled his name With feelings of delight. 89 40 THE ROSE. No tongue can faithfully describe The happiness and joy His mother felt when she had heard This tidings of her boy. Eighteen months had passed away, George still continued firm, And no one ever thought that he Would from his purpose turn. Into her favour once again His Margaret him received, Afid in her joy tried to forget That she had ever grieved. Their wedding day it came at last, And friends invited were, A little of their joy and mirth And luxuries to share. But now the saddest part by far ' Of my story comes to tell, Had not Sir Alcohol been there, All would have ended well. The ceremony being performed, They handed round the wine, And to poor George's ruin we This act may now assign. When first the wine was offered him THE ROSE. He it refused to talce, For he said his resolution He did not wish to break. ''0 George, 5^ou'll surely take a glass," His bride to him did say, " One glass will never harm j^ou, All on your wedding day." *' Well, Margaret, if j^ou wish it, I will take a little drop ; One glass will never harm me, For with that one I'll stop." \ He drank the glass and called for more, — That glass had sealed his fate,— How bitterly t)oor Margaret wept, But now it was too late. She bade him take the fatal glass, Sh« blamed herself for all ; She always said she was the cause Of his sad second fall. And from that hour George Morgan's hopes Of happiness were gone ; It seemed as if he could not stop. That something led him on. When rebuked for his intemperance He always would exclaim, 41 42 THE ROSE. " You should not give a taste of blood To a wild beast you did tame." The manly form of Morgan Liee in the silent grave. by this tale take warning, Stretch forth your hand to save ; And put not the cup of liquor strong To lips of friend or foe, Lest, like young Morgan, they may end In misery and woe. ■»<»» « A DEUNKAED'S WIFE. What maiden lovely, young and fair, • Whose future hopes are bright, Who does not know a grief or care, Whose heart is always light, Would say, " My happy home I'll leave. And sadly spend my life In wretchedness and want and grief, — I'll be a drunkard's wife ! '* Through misery and trials hard I'll wend my weary way, My husband's voice I must regard, Though he is gone astray ; THE EOSE. 43 Though he may treat me cruelly, My path with grief be rife, Yet, for all this, I choose i& be A drunkard's sorrowing wife. " I'll spend my days in sorrow deep, No pleasure will I know, In grief and sorrow will I weep. In sad and heartfelt woe ; And broken-hearted wander on, 'Mid care and grief and strife. Till all my days on earth are gone, — Then die a drunkard's wife." Oh, maiden ! from such misery You quickly turn away ; " A drunkard's ^ife I will not be," I think I hear you say. Then wed a Son of Temperance now, And happy spend your life, • That you the anguish may not know Of many a drunkaid's wife. TOUOH NOT THE WINE CUP ! Touch not the wine cup, There's poison within ; Touch not the adder Or he will you sting. 44 THE ROSE. Wine, the Distroyer, Your hopes will destroy— Rob you of comfort And rob you of joy ; Plunge you in poverty, Sorrow and woe ; Do not go near him For he ia your foe. then fly from him, No longer delay, Delays are so dangerous, turn while j'ou may ! i^-***-! LINES WEITTEU ON THE DEATH OP THE HON. THOMAS D'AEOY McGEE. As the morning dawns so bright, In its radiant, beauteous light, In the clear and cloudless skies See the glorious sun arise ; And the winged songsters gay Merrily hail the opening day, Warble forth their sweetest notes From their pretty feathered throats. Yet this beauteous morning fair Brings but sorrow and despair ; [. THE KOSE. • By some dreadful, heavy strolse, Many a heart is nearly broke ; They some mournful news have heard, Something dreadful has occurred ; Crowds of men together draw — Sadness reigns in Ottawa. Listen to that doleful sound, See the mourners stand around ! Why so many gathered there, Why are they in such despair, What has caused such dreadful grief,— Nothing gives their hearts relief,— Why so many tears now shed? Ah, 'tis brave M'Gee is dead ! He who never felt a fear, Thought not of the death so near, — Thought not of the treacherous foe Who so quickly laid him low, — Thought not of the numerous spies Watching him with envious eyes, — Yet the villians watched him well, — By that fatal shot he fell. • Cut off in the midst of fame. Long will live his noble name. Firmly by the right he stood, 46 40 ■ THE EOSE. Laboured for his country's good ; . Where can they his equal find,— Gifted, eloquent, and kind,— Patiently he used the pen For to aid his fallow men. i» — 'Twas a dreadful death he died. No kind friends were by his side. No fond wife or children near, His last moments for to cheer. Not a word of warning gave. He was hastened to the grave Ere he bade a last adieu •• To the friends he loved so true. Deeply though his loss they feel. Time will yet their sorrows heal ; They will hope to meet above Him they did so fondly love; And this hope their hearts will cheer, Though to them he was so dear, As they think, when life is o'er, They will meet to part no more. THE ROSE. 47 BLiaHTED HOPES. Yon aged man in sorrow lives, His brow is marked by care ; *** To all this good advice he gives,— Of alcohol beware. For deepest sorrow he has known, And many a tear has shed, For those who now are from him gone, Who now, alas ! are dead. Yes, once a happy home he had-, And fortune on him smiled ; Two playful children, bright and glad, The pleasant hours beguiled. A son and daughter bound to him By strong affection's tie ; And when he thinks of what has been A tear is in his eye. Their childhood's happy days they passed In merry, artless glee ; No thought upon the future cast, No sorrows did they see. And when to riper years they grew, Still by their father's »ide, . With hearts affectionate and true, The'y were his joy and pride. 48 THE ROSE. For 0, a mother's tender care They early were denied ; Their gentle mother, young arid fair, In early life had died, 4 Fair Helenas praises could be heard From almost every tongue ; For she was amiable and kind, Accomplished and young. And many a suitor to her came, And kind att&ntions paid ; But there was. only one could gain « The heart of this fair maid. James Brown, who was the favoured one, Who stole her heart away, Was an esteemed, rich merchant's son. So courteous, kind and gay The father saw his daughter's choice, The home she soon would share ; But 0, to part with her ! it was A trial hard to bear. " My child," he cried, '* may Heaven on you Her richest blessings send, And may your husband still be true Until this life will end." THE BOSE. 49 In wedlock's bonds tbey soon wei'^ join6dv Fair Helen's heart was light, Her husband was to her so kind^ The future looked so bright. Her's was a trusting, loving heart, In James she did confide. When from her father she did part, Became a happy bride^ \ few years passed, but grief has oomtj She now has cause to weep ; And on her once bright happy hi^no We now will take a p*ep. The time is winter,-^on the hearth A few small embers bum ; ' All here looks comfortless and dtear; > Whatever way you turn. The wife and mother is in tears, And 0, how thin and pale l She starts, and rises ais she hears Her infant's piteous wail. But little has she now to say»— .vui* y/oi * Sad are her looks indeedf— And in her face s^ strangoor m%^ ^ A tale of suffering read. 50 THE ROSE. But see, the door is openiDg now, A drunkard staggers in ; 'Tis he, who three short years ago Fair Helen's heart did .win. With staggering stepa he moves aloug^ And nearly tumbles o'er His little child, who just began To walk across the fioor. The mothm: ran, her child to save^ She knew his apger well ; But her a heavy blow he gave, * And on the floor she fell. • That fall to her has fatal proved. How will her father grieve, That her by him so truly loved So soon this world should leave.! And all that now remained on earth For him to gaze upon, The icy form, so cold in death, Of his beloved one. A few days passed, and her remaint All in the grave were laid ; Her soul had fled to hapi»er climes, To joys that never fiide. THE BOSS. Though she had trials here below, Those trials all are past. And she has fled from grief and woe To joys that ever last. Her father saw, with sorrow deep. His daughter from him gone ; In heartfelt anguish did he weep, And sadly did he moan. • But yet he was not quite alone ; A son of promise rare, Who had to years of manhood grown, His cares and griefs did share. Young John was loved by all around, So manly kind and true ; Wherever he went a friend he found, His equals were but few. But in an evil hour he learned To drink the liquor strong, , And oft his father for him mourned, And told him it was wrong. But O, it seemed too hard for him From liquor to abstain } He who high honors thought to win, ' A drunkard vile became. 51 52 THE ROSE. One evening, hi was usual, John Bid to the tavern go ; The night was very dark and cold, The wind did wildly blow. The father also left his home, To see a^ neighbor went, And when he had his errand done His steps were homeward bent. The thunder rolled most mournfully. Fast fell the heavy rain ; He stepped beneath, a large oak tree, A shelter to' obtain. Near him he heard a heavy groan. And, by the lightening*s aid, He saw it was his only son Who on the ground was laid. He took him up, him oarried home And laid him. on his bed, And looked upon his faee, but Oh ! His much loved son was dead. * Who can dosc)>ibe the father's grief^ When he was lefl to mourn, That in a p^iod' so brief His children both were gone I THE ROSE. what has blighted all his hopes. And, in their youth and bloom ^ Has caused his ehildren to be laid In such an early tomb ? Why did James strike the dreadful blow That caused the fatal fall, And ^hat caused poor John's o^etthrow ?' Intemperance done it all I Intemperance, vile, much more has done, And much more still will do, — Has caused the death of many a man And many a woman too. « And now this aged man will mourn For those that he did love, But hopes that he will meet them pood, In yon bright world above. No wonder, then, he looks so sad ; No wonder he does cry, To every man and every lady- Avoid it,— pass iV by 1 And now to every drunkard I A few words have to say : From rum, as from a serpent, fly. Turn now while yet yon may. 53 54 THE ROSE. Go, sign the pledge, no longer wait. And from the vice ahstain, And you will never need regret That j'ou have lived in vain. For you may lead some erring one To quit the maddening bowl, Before that it has caused the death Of body and of soul. Let not this pass unheeded by,— Hear now the warning voice, — Turn from the poison, ere you die, — Make now the happy choice. THE MISEE. The miser loves his gold so well, He counts it o*er and o'er, And, not content with what he has, He wishes still for more, 'T is all his heart is sot upon, He dreads with it to part; He fears from him it will be gone. And anxious is his heart. THE ROSE. 55 With angry voice he seDdi away The beggar from his door, — *' I'll give you nothing now," he says, " So trouble me no more." Though by his hoary locks we see That he is growing old, He thinks not of eternity, — His thoughts are on his gold. He has no treasure in the sky, — Gold that will never rust, — He thinks not that he soon must die, And moulder into dust* And when all hope of life is gone, His heart will nearly break To think that now some other one His riches all will take. In search of wealth his life was spent. Nor did for death prepare ; He saw no time for to repent, His gold was all his care. No peace of mind his riches now, Or comfort can supply ; With anguish marked upon his brow, H# finds that he must die. 56 THE ROSE. LAMENT or A TOOTH DYING IN A FOBEIQN LAND. 1 am far from my home and mj' parents so dear, None but hard-hearted strangers unto me are near ; O why did I ramble ! why did I roam 1 In the time of affliction there's no place like home. how I wish I with my parents had stayed, — Their kind counsels and warnings had I but obeyed, 1 would not have been here, in sorrow and pain,— that I could once more but see them again ! 0, if to their arms now I only could fly, To ask their forgiveness before that I die ; But those wishes are vain, for that never can be, My dear loving parents no more I will see. Had I treasure laid up in heaven above, now what a blessing to me it would prove; But gold was my idol, for it I did sigh. And now I have gained it, alas, I must die ! No hope now is left me, — in anguish — alone — My thoughts wander back to*the days that are gore ; The bright days of childhood, but they are allpassed, And now in a strange land I must breathe my last. Ah listen, ye youths^ unto me while I tell,— Be content with your lot if you know when yoti'te well, For if ever you venture aiar for to roam. You'll find there is no place so pleasant as home. 0<:- ASD. id, ni >o 1