Classic Poem

Who hath the trembling hand,
And eyes that are rheumy and red?
Who, amid darkness that knows no morn,
Mourns over hopes that are dead?
And who goes staggering by
With weak and tottering feet,
With rags on his back and cheeks aflame,
And hot lips foul with words of shame—
The scoff of the pitiless street?

And who sits, sad and pale,
Beside her desolate hearth—
A wailing babe on her patient knee,
Sick and sad from its birth?
While the heavy hours drag by,
Of what does this watcher think?
Why harks she so as steps go past?
And why, when one step comes at last,
Does she start, and shiver, and shrink?

And one comes tottering in,
With reeking and poisoned breath,
She well may fear, for she knows the work
Of the flery cup of death.
More than my pen can paint,
This sorrowful woman knows
Of want, of woes like mountains piled,
Of oaths, and curses, and ravings wild,
And the weight of heavy blows.

Reared in a delicate home,
She remembers a happy time,
When days were leaves of a pleasant book
All written in dainty rhyme.
She remembers peaceful nights,
That were blessed with radiant dreams;
And rosy morns, and fleecy skies,
And the tender light in a mother's eyes—
How long ago it seems.

She remembers one day of joy,
When she stood, a white-robed bride,
By the side of one who was more to her
Than all the great world's pride.
She stands beside him now,
Pale with a mortal fear.
Her pinched, wan cheeks grow whiter yet,
Her great wild eyes are fixed and set
On his face so marred and blear.

It has come—that awful scourge,
Whose terrors none can speak—
And the lips that cursed as he crossed the door
Now utter shriek on shriek,
He sees all fearful things!
A serpent crawls at his feet;
The dark panes glow with fierce green eyes,
And in yon dusky corner lies
A corpse in winding-sheet.

He feels on his shrinking cheek
The flapping of goblin wings,
And over his flesh the slimy touch
Of horrible creeping things.
He writhes in the grip of fiends,
That drag him down to hell.
Can naught redeem from a hell like this?
Could an angel's hand or an angel's kiss?
Hark to the tale I tell.

There came to that dread abode—
As come to many another—
Men of a tried and faithful band,
Who look upon man as a brother—
Who look on man as a brother—
However low he may sink;
Who stretch forth pitying hands to save
The fallen from his self-dug grave,
Though he stand at the very brink.

They came with soothing tones,
With fuel, and food, and care;
And strong, brave words of cheerful hope,
For the drunkard's dire despair.
They bore him up in their arms,
They lifted him out of the pit—
And now, in a home of calm content,
Where cheerful labor and rest are blent,
Do peace and plenty sit.

The wife's wan cheek grows red,
And her smile is fair to see;
And a rosy boy, with golden hair,
Climbs to his father's knee.
Brothers! such work as this
Deserves a laurel crown!
For the solemn joy such deeds must bring,
The loftiest genius, the proudest king,
Might well on his knees go down.

Oh, fathers with drunken sons!
Oh, sons with drunken sires!
Would that the bitter tears ye shed
Might quench these bellish fires!
Oh, people, grand and strong!
Arise in your kingly might.
Put from your midst the accursed thing:—
And the dove of peace, with brooding wing,
Shall on your homes alight.