The Disenthralled

HE had bowed down to drunkenness,

An abject worshipper:

The pride of manhood’s pulse had grown

Too faint and cold to stir;

And he had given his spirit up

To the unblessëd thrall,

And bowing to the poison cup,

He gloried in his fall!

There came a change—the cloud rolled off,

And light fell on his brain—

And like the passing of a dream

That cometh not again,

The shadow of the spirit fled.

He saw the gulf before,

He shuddered at the waste behind,

And was a man once more.

He shook the serpent folds away,

That gathered round his heart,

As shakes the swaying forest-oak

Its poison vine apart;

He stood erect; returning pride

Grew terrible within,

And conscience sat in judgment, on

His most familiar sin.

The light of Intellect again

Along his pathway shone;

And Reason like a monarch sat

Upon his olden throne.

The honored and the wise once more

Within his presence came;

And lingered oft on lovely lips

His once forbidden name.

There may be glory in the might,

That treadeth nations down;

Wreaths for the crimson conqueror,

Pride for the kingly crown;

But nobler is that triumph hour,

The disenthralled shall find,

When evil passion boweth down,

Unto the Godlike mind!