Part 48 (2/2)

Within that mother's heart, the light Of love was quench'd, quench'd by the flood, The d.a.m.ning flood, whose waters blight All that is left of human good: And in her breast that demon reigned, Who ”Give, give, give!” is ever crying; Demanding still to be maintained, While all within, around, is dying; Outpouring in its baneful breath, Destruction, sorrow, sin and death.

The lips which should have kiss'd away Her daughter's tears, dealt curses forth; The hand which should have been her stay, Was but the minister of wrath; Blind to her wants, deaf to her prayers, Regardless of the driving storm, To open streets and midnight airs, She drove that little shrinking form, To earn a dram! In shame and scorn With famished lips to cry, ”Hot corn!”

”Hot corn, hot corn!”--night after night, More faint and feeble grew that voice-- Still fiercely burned each glaring light, Still music bade the town rejoice; The ceaseless footsteps pa.s.sed along, Up came the wild discordant tones, The voices of the thoughtless throng,-- The bounding wheels rolled o'er the stones,-- But midst the din, the rush, the roar, Poor Katy's cry is heard no more.

In one of those dark, noisome cells, The wretched call their home, she lies All motionless; the icy spells Of death, have closed those weary eyes; She speaks not now. Alas! how dread!

That calm reproachful silence, when Beside the wronged and injured dead, We kneel in vain! Low in that den Behold the stricken mother cower; Grown sober in one fearful hour.

She calls her, ”Katy, darling!”--peers Into that pale and sunken face, She bathes her senseless brow with tears, Sees on those bruised limbs, the trace Of her own cruelty;--again She calls, and prays for one last word, Of blest forgiveness;--all in vain, The answering voice no more is heard, The soulless clay alone is there, And fell remorse, and dark despair.

Weep, wretched woman, weep! That face Shall haunt thee to thy dying day; Nor time from memory erase Thy child's deep wrongs; for they Shall scorch into thy guilty breast; In mad excitement thou shalt hear Her cries; and midst thy fitful rest, Shall that pale phantom form appear, And o'er thy drunken moping, stand To curse thee with an outstretched hand.

Yet not alone with thee, abides That curse. Oh, Men, and Christians! can Ye robe yourself in G.o.d-like pride, And boast your land, the one where man Is most exalted; yet permit The Demon Drunkenness to roam Unfettered through your streets; to sit By ev'ry corner, ev'ry home-- The weak and wretched to allure To drink, to suffer, and endure?

In mercy, then, arrest the reign Of this dread fiend; and Oh! protect Man from his self-inflicted pain.

Spare the young wife, whose hopes are wreck'd, Whose heart is crushed, whose home forsaken, Whose life's a desolated wild.

To infant prayers and tears awaken, And from the mother save the child.

Hark to that echo!--”Save, oh, save!”

Pleads a sad voice from Katy's grave.

”Pleads a sad voice from Katy's grave-- Save, oh, save!”

Fathers! mothers! sons! daughters! husbands! wives! Christians!

philanthropists! All--brothers and sisters!--hear ye that voice? If ye do not, then, indeed, are ye deaf. Then have I cried in vain. In vain I have visited the abodes of wretchedness and sin, to draw materials for my panorama of ”Life Scenes in New York.” In vain I have painted you dark scenes of life, instead of those which s.h.i.+ne out in the noonday sun.

In vain have I endeavored to awaken your sympathies by relations of tales of woe, or painted vice, as I have met with it in my midnight rambles, to guard you from its snares, if I have failed to touch that chord in your heart which brings a tear to the eye, for it is that which will prompt you to action--to sleepless vigilance, to eradicate from the world the great cause of such human misery as I have depicted. It is that which, will prompt you to give, if nothing more,

”Three grains of corn, Only three grains of corn, mother,”

towards the redemption of the fallen, and protection of those who need a staff and a guide to hold them back from the precipice over which they have gone down to ruin.

Reader, if you have not yet done it, do not close the book until you have paid the tribute of a tear at the grave of

[Ill.u.s.tration: Little Katy]

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