‘Tis but a drop” the father said,
And gave it to his son;
But little did he think a work
Of death was then begun.
The “drop” that lured him when the babe
Scarce lisped his father’s name,
Planted a fatal appetite
Deep in his infant frame.
“‘T is but a drop,” the comrades cried,
In truant school-boy tone;
“It did not hurt us in our robes,
It will not now we’re grown.”
And so they drank the mixture up—
That reeling, youthful band;
For each had learned to love the taste
From his own father’s hand.
“‘T is but a drop,” the husband said,
While his poor wife stood by,
In famine, grief, and loneliness,
And raised th’ imploring cry.
“‘T is but a drop—I’ll drink it still—
‘T will never injure me:
I always drink—so, madam, hush!
We never can agree.’
She wept, she pleaded, but in vain,
The hunger of her child,
And her own tatter’d dress—the wretch
Her mournful words revil’d.
He took the cup with fiend-like air,
And deep and long he drank;
Then dash’d it down, and on the earth
Insensible he sank.
“‘T is but a drop—I need it now,”
The staggering drunkard said;
“It was my food in infancy—
My meat, and drink, and bread.
A drop—a drop—oh, let me have,
‘T will so refresh my soul!”
He took it—trembled—drank and died,
Grasping the fatal bowl.
(John Pierpont)
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Based on Topics: Death & Dying Poems, Soul Poems, Sense & Perception Poems, Name Poems, Cry Poems, Sons Poems, Fathers Poems, Work & Career Poems, Grief Poems, Loneliness PoemsBased on Keywords: up-, fiend-like, drink-, revil, trembled-, drop-, dress-, infancy-