Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarms changed to merry greetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

Grim visaged rum hath smoothed his wrinkled front,
And now-instead of marshalling our arguments
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries—
We enjoy that Heaven-born peace, which
A moral victory is always sure to afford
Its faithful advocates.

THE LIFE AND DEATH

OF

KING ALCOHOL.

A STRANGER Once of lofty mien,

While trav'ling through this world was seen; So Proteus-like, 't was hard to tell

From whence he came, from Heaven or Hell.

He first appear'd in friendship's dress,
And said he did all good possess;

Yea, that he had the fount of bliss,
That ev'ry earthly joy was his.

If FORTUNE frown'd on Adam's race,
He had a balm for every case;
And, if his word we might believe,
Could ev'ry woe at once relieve.

The pains of head, of limb, of heart,
He'd bid them in a trice depart;
The bloom of health he could restore,
And make the Old feel old no more.

If POVERTY, instead of wealth,
Had crept on man by silent stealth-
If friends had fled like morning dew,
He promised others, far more true.