Poems (Markham)/Voice of intemperance

by Elizabeth Markham

Voice of Intemperance

I rove through the city
 Or prowl on the plain,
And boast of the innocent
 Victims I've slain;

Of my widows and orphans,
 The tears they have shed;
Of desolate hovels,
 And hearts that have bled;

Of minds once enlightened,
 In the ranks of the brave;
Of the fate of the monarch,
 Or the death of the slave.

When I ride on the ocean
 Or sail on the lake,
I mark down the millions
 That follow my wake.

To the mother that weeps
 O'er the fate of her son,
I boast of the chivalrous
 Deeds I have done—

The oceans of blood
 And tears I have spilt,
And witnessed cruelty,
 Sorrow and guilt.

At a breath or a touch
 Of my magical wand,
The mighty are fallen—
 Their wealth I command.

The home of the happy
 Is wrecked at my name;
The spoils of the wealthy
 Is the height of my fame;

The brow of the beautiful,
 Lovely and gay,
I have mantled with shame
 And stamped with dismay.

The maid on her lover
 Looks down with disdain
For the ties that had bound them
 I had severed in twain.

The pride of man's heart,
 Her music and song,
Is turned into wailing
 As I entered the throng.

The voice of his children,
 As they sport in the dale,
At the sound of the revel
 Is swept from the vale.

But I felt my influence
 Begin to decay,
When the cold water army
 Was set in array.

But her ranks are so broken
 Her chieftains are fled,
That I've taken fresh courage
 And hold up my head.

My health is improving,
 I feel no alarms,
Since the cold water army
 Have laid down their arms.
E. M.
Oregon City, December 20, 1849.
Oregon Spectator, December 27, 1849.