Poems (Barker)/Work of the Wine Cup

by Alice J. Green Barker

Work of the Wine Cup.

Fold me closer, mother darling,
 To your true and loving breast,
I am very, very tired,
 But I know I soon shall rest;
Yes, I know that I am dying,
 Gentle mother take my hand,
Lead me through death's stormy water,
 Entrance to the summer land.

I was wild and reckless, mother,
 Yet my love for you was deep,
But I loved the wine-cup better,
 I have sowed and I must reap.
Hold me to your heart, dear mother,
 As you did in days gone by,
Ere my soul with crime was blackened,
 But, dear mother, do not cry.

Had I listened to you pleading,
 Had I left the siren wine,
Saint-like-truth and spotless honor,
 O'er my life would brightly shine,
But I turned from God, dear mother,
 Wandered far from joy and truth,
And I headed not your pleading,
 Gentle teacher of my youth.

All my hope and joy and honor,
 In the treacherous wine-cup lie,
For I drank its poisonous contents,
 And for this your boy must die;
Hold me closer mother, closer,
 Oh, perhaps t'will ease the pain,
And when death is very near me,
 Sing some sweet and quiet strain.

Gently, oh how gently mother,
 When my spirit sinks to rest,
It is sweet to know, when dying,
 I am folded on your breast,
And to feel I am forgiven
 By my mother, darling one,
Oh, I know that I am sinful,
 Still you love your erring son.

Mother, when my form is lying
 Here in death so still and cold,
Tell my friends to come and see me,
 Ere I'm laid beneath the mould:
Tell them when they look upon me,
 Silent, pale and cold in death,
That I bade them kneel, dear mother,
 Bade them, with my dying breath.

Then with sad young hearts uplifted,
 To the one who reigns above,
Make a deep and solemn promise,
 God will listen in his love,
That they'll never touch the wine-cup,
 They can break its magic spell,
To its dark and sinful pleasures
 Bid a long and glad farewell.

Tell them they have helped to conquer,
 God will to them angels send,
And they know the lowly Jesus,
 Blest Redeemer, is their friend.
Tell them this, and very gently,
 Lay your hand upon each head,
Bless them all, but darling mother
 Don't forget your silent dead.

Let your white hand gently linger
 'Mong the curls of dark brown hair,
Often ere these days of darkness,
 It has rested proudly there:
'Tis so hard to die, dear mother,
 While my name bears this disgrace,
And to see this sorrow gather
 On your pure and gentle face.

Tell the world, oh! patient mother,
 That from wine this darkness came;
How the fair deceitful siren
 Brought dishonor to my name;
I am growing strangely tired,
 But dear mother do not weep,
Death is very, very near me,
 I have sowed and I must reap.

Hark, I hear the angels singing,
 But their words I cannot tell,
Do not grieve for me, dear mother,
 Kiss your boy, farewell! farewell.