Oh would to God that he then had died
Died when the anguish of heartstrings torn,
The sudden stilling of childish laughter,
The awful vacance that fills the place
Of the soft, warm touch, of the dear, dear face,
Of the sweet dead child that the heart gropes after
For God's own voice to the mourner saith,
"Be still, I am God, there is hope in his death'

Alas! for the woe that under the sun
Can find no comfort! this child lived on.
What must be his mother's sorrow and sin,
If she held the glass to his infant lips
Taught him the taste of sweetened gin,
As a cure for every childish pain,
To be tried and tampered with once and again
If she taught him to worship at fashion's shrine,
In its magic circle to look on wine.
To pour it sparkling in ruby light,
The adder's sting the serpent's bite,
Came to him at last among evil men,
But he once was a boy,
A mother's joy,
Clever and gifted with tongue and pen,
The cup of temptation
Was inspiration,
Oh would to God he had died even then
The mother's tears shed over the slain,
Had then had hope in their bitter pain