Poems (Merrill)/Tales that were Told

by Clara A. Merrill

TALES THAT WERE TOLD

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A decanter and a crystal cup  Met in a banquet hall; The rosy light of the sparkling wine  Shed radiance over all. Ah, ha! old friend—and how is this— What is your mission here? "A pure, sweet spirit bid me come,"  Replied the water clear.

"So we have met," said the ruby wine,  "Now let us social be,—Let's see who holds the greater power  O'er the nation, you or me." "I can boast" said he, "of mighty deeds— I can tell you many a tale Of woe, and folly, sin and crime,— Can you, my friend so frail?

I have caused Old Age to droop and die— I have caused fair Youth to fade; I have blighted lives, and hopes destroyed,— When I strike there is no aid. I have hurled men down from their high estate— Remorseful I'm not in the least,—I have dragged them down, and down, until  They were level with the beast.

I have happy homes made desolate  Ha, ha! I laugh with glee As I see the babes every comfort denied, While the money is wasted on me! Tell me, my friend, Oh tell me I pray,  Of a power that is greater than mine—Not yours—No! you are but water weak,  While I am the fiery wine!

And though I am classed in the bar-room  Under many a different name,—No matter what liquor they call me, My spirit is always the same. I have sunk big ships—Yes, sank them down  In the depths of the briny deep; And for the loved who perished there  Their kindred e'er may weep.

I have wrecked the train—I have mansions burned— 'Neath my power man's senses flee—I have cast proud monarchs from their throne,— Behold! this wrought by Me! And this I say is not the half  Of the great success I win—But I'll no longer take the time  So you, pale friend, begin."

***

"I do not boast" the water said.  Though my power is as potent as yours; For to all who freely drink of me It health and strength insures. I gently sooth the sick and the faint,  I new life in the weary imbue; And even the roses smile sweetly and bright  As I touch them with kisses of dew.

I turn the mill which grinds the grain— I strengthen, I cleanse, I heal; All things rejoice with grateful breath  When my cool hand they feel. I send the brooklet on its way— I lift the drooping vine,—I make all vegetation grow— Can you do that, Sir Wine?

Of our might and power we'll not dispute— (The result of our deeds will show;) For the worth of me and the curse of you All noble minded know. No, no! Sir Wine, Your path is death,  While mine is safely trod; You are cursed by a demon's hand— I, blessed by the hand of God.