The Drunkard's Child
He stood beside his dying
child,
With a dim and bloodshot
eye;
They'd won him from the haunts
of vice
To see his first-born die.
He came with a slow and staggering
tread,
A vague, unmeaning stare,
And, reeling, clasped the
clammy hand,
So deathly pale and fair.
In a dark and gloomy chamber,
Life ebbing fast away,
On a coarse and wretched
pallet,
The dying sufferer lay:
A smile of recognition
Lit up the glazing eye;
"I'm very glad," it seemed
to say,
"You've come to see me die."
That smile reached to his
callous heart,
It sealed fountains stirred;
He tried to speak, but on
his lips
Faltered and died each word.
And burning tears like rain
Poured down his bloated face,
Where guilt, remorse and
shame
Had scathed, and left their
trace.
"My father!" said the dying
child,
(His voice was faint and
low,)
"Oh! clasp me closely to
your heart,
And kiss me ere I go.
Bright angels beckon me away,
To the holy city fair --
Oh! tell me, Father, ere
I go,
Say, will you meet me there?"
He clasped him to his throbbing
heart,
"I will! I will!" he said;
His pleading ceased -- the
father held
His first-born and his dead!
The marble brow, with golden
curls,
Lay lifeless on his breast;
Like sunbeams on the distant
clouds
Which line the gorgeous west.
Author: Frances Ellen
Watkins
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