This page has been validated.
INTEMPERANCE.
115
Have we any room to doubt it,
When its evil fruits we see?
Messmates! let us do without it,
Break its thraldom and be free.
Hath not life enough of sorrow,
Sickness, anguish, and decay,
That we needs must madly borrow
Thorns to plant its shortening way?
There's a draught that heaven distilleth,
Pure as crystal from the skies,
Freely, whosoever willeth,
May partake it, and be wise.
