Words From The Wind
I called to the wind of the Winter,
As he sped like a steed on his way,
'Oh! rest for awhile on thy journey,
And answer these questions, I pray.
'Who is the foe to all virtue,
Who is the chieftain of crime?
Who blackens the forehead of beauty,
And cheateth the finger of time?
Who maketh the heart to be aged,
In the beautiful morning of youth?
Who is the herald of sorrow,
And who the assassin of Truth?
Who is the help-meet of Satan,
The agent of regions below?
Who the promoter of vices?
Who loadeth the bosom with woe?
Who stealeth the strength of the mighty?
Who stealeth the wits of the wise?
Who maketh the good and the noble
A thing that the meanest despise?'
And the wind of the wild Winter answered,
In a voice like a clarion call:
''Tis a beast legion-headed, a demon
Whom men christened 'King Alcohol.'
This is the help-meet that Satan
Sends out from the kingdom of hell,
A many-faced demon, who doeth
The work of the master right well;
For he weaveth his web round the noble,
And slayeth the soul with his breath.
Ah! this is the foe to all virtue,
And this is the agent of death.'
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