Temperance by G. D. Kent

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Feb 22, 1883

Temperance.

By G. D. Kent

THE DREAM.

I HAD a dream, I say a dream— Yet scarce a dream was mine. Methought I saw Intemperance, Before the Judgment shrine. His form was giant in its size— Was giant in its strength; His boldness filled me with surprise— He stood in self-defense.

What can'st thou say, Intemperance, Ere sentence dire be given, Since thou hast peopled hell below, And robbed the seats of Heaven? Thou knowest full well, 'tis written plain And marked in the decree: No soul that dies the drunkard's death Shall my salvation see.

But thou hast made thy brother drunk; Hast damned thy brother's soul— Because of thee he downward sunk Beyond his own control. What mischief hath not thy hand wrought What tears, what groans, what pains, What homes annoyed, what souls destroyed To fill thy cup of gain ?

Methought I did not see him wince, Nor show the least appall; But with a look that haunts me still, He viewed the Judgment hall. Then answering said, “I've thought of this, But here my papers are; They're from thy children while on earth— I bring them to thy bar.

The papers they were handed in. I trembled when I saw In lines of black this right to sin, Was headed “License Law.” This license was a moneyed plan, By which the right was sold Of robbing, cursing, killing man, By paying so much gold.

For so much gold we license thee To ruin, kill, destroy, To drive from home its brightest gems And drown each cup of joy. To excite man to deeds of strife, To angry words and blows, To decrease all the joys of life And increase all its woes.

For so much gold we license thee To fill the drunkard's bowl, And thrust upon society These desecrated holes— These dens of drinking, gambling, wrong— These dens of dark repute, Where vice, with Bacchanalian song, Sinks man below the brute.

For so much gold we license thee To plunge our land in crime, And on the people lay a tax, Oppression scarce could bind. To make court sessions long and dear, Our jails and prisons fill, And thus with horror multiply The curses of the still.

For so much gold we license thee, Our poor-house rooms to fill, And yet a hapless orphan curse, And many a mother kill. And many a brother stain with crime, Make many a sister moan, Make many a father sit and pine In dungeon cell alone.

For so much gold we'll stand between Thee and all justice due, All wives' entreaties, mothers' tears— Pay us and we'll shield you. “I paid them for this license bill, The gold they did receive, If wrong is done they guilty are, As Justice will perceive.”

I woke. O! terrible that dream! And yet it was all true, And all this ruin, all this curse, Is caused by ME not you! Is caused by God's own children here. Our numbers might control, Might save our nation from this curse, Might save our brother's soul.

O Christian, where have we the right To license what is wrong? How shall we answer in that day Before the Judgment throne? Ye are my stewards, occupy Earth's vineyard till I come. Lord aid us that from yonder sky Thy voice may say “WELL DONE.” —Rev. G. D. Kent.