'T Is But A Drop

'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.