THE DRUNKARD’S CHILD. FOUNDED ON ONE OF J. B. GOUGH’S THRILLING ANECDOTES.

“I cannot spare that book, papa— Take all I have beside; But that my poor, my dear mamma, Gave me the day she died, “And bade me keep it for her sake;— If all your money’s spent Sell all my toys, but do not take My little Testament! “She told me that I there might read The way to heaven above. I cannot part with it indeed!— Her last dear gift of love.” There stood beside that couch of straw, All haggard, wretched, wild, The drunkard father, staggering o’er His sweet but dying child. And as she spoke, a father’s tear Stole down his bloated cheek; And thus he cried, “Hush, Fanny dear! ’Tis not your book I seek. “But oh! this cursed, burning thirst, Has made me mad, I think; I take your book!—I’d perish first— And yet I must have drink!— “Come, child! no more that sad pale look!— There—dry your weeping eye, I would not steal your little book For all the world—not I!” Her sighs and sobs are now at rest, For see! the maiden sleeps;— But closely to her little book, The Testament, she keeps. There bathed in beauteous tears she lay, Like some half drooping flower, Cropt ere the sun had kissed away The grief of evening’s hour. There stood the man; his burning tongue Half cursing his intent, As stealthily from Fanny’s breast He took the Testament. Not all a father’s love could break The dread, the cursed spell That binds the drunkard to his glass, And drags his soul to hell. But deaf to sweet affection’s voice, Dead to the fear of sin, Away he bore the cherished pledge And bartered it for gin. Now once again he dares beside That wretched couch to stand; And gazes on his dying child The bottle in his hand.— How shall he meet her dying face? He dare not, cannot think, But all reflection, all disgrace Drowns in absorbing drink,— But see! his little daughter wakes, And seeks her book in vain, Yet murmurs not—how calm she takes The sickness and the pain. But though the ghastly hues of death O’er her wan features roll, A beam of immortality Is borrowed from the soul, That lightens up her waning eye With an unearthly light, That tells the spirit plumes its wings For an eternal flight. “Father,” she cried, “I’m dying now; Nay, father! do not weep!— I know you took my Testament When I was fast asleep. “But I forgive you, father dear! Come!—sit down by my side!— Say! do you think I’ll get to heaven? You know how hard I’ve tried. “I think I shall—I know I shall— For in my book I read ‘Let little children come to Me,’ That’s what the Saviour said. “But, father, when I get to heaven And my poor dear mamma, And all those angels pure and bright Shall speak of you, papa! “And ask me what you did with it, My mother’s darling book— What shall your Fanny say to them?— Father!—how ill you look!”— “Oh! mercy, child!” the father cries, “What hope is there for me, Oh! I have broken all the ties Of loved humanity!— “See here!” and with a dreadful oath The bottle down he cast— “Thus do I break the drunkard’s chains —I’ve freed myself at last.” “Nay! curse not, father dear, but pray.”— “How can I pray,” he cried. “I’ll teach you, father; come this way!— There—kneel down by my side!”— He knelt, and in response to her, Repeated word for word— “To me a sinner deep and black Be merciful, O Lord!” She died—and as the angels bore Her little spirit home, They sang in joy o’er the drunkard’s soul Thus rescued from its doom.[29] H. W. Bidwell.