Poems (Cook)/Water
WATER.
Wine, wine, thy power and praiseHave ever been echo'd in minstrel lays;But Water, I deem, hath a mightier claim.To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame.Ye who are bred in Anacreon's schoolMay sneer at my strain, as the song of a fool.Ye are wise, no doubt, but have yet to learn.How the tongue can cleave, and the veins can burn.
Should ye ever be one of a fainting band,With your brow to the sun and your feet to the sand;I would wager the thing I'm most loath to spare,That your Bacchanal chorus would never ring there.Traverse the desert, and then ye can tellWhat treasures exist in the cold, deep well;Sink in despair on the red parch'd earth,And then ye may reckon what Water is worth.
Famine is laying her hand of boneOn the ship becalm'd in a torrid zone;The gnawing of Hunger's worm is past,But fiery Thirst lives on to the last.The stoutest one of the gallant crewHath a cheek and lips of ghastly hue;The hot blood stands in each glassy eye;And, "Water, O God!" is the only cry.
There's drought in the land, and the herbage is dead,No ripple is heard in the streamlet's bed:The herd's low bleat and the sick man's pant,Are mournfully telling the boon we want.Let Heaven this one rich gift withhold,How soon we find it is better than gold;And Water, I say, hath a right to claim.The minstrel's song, and a tithe of fame,