Lo, a Soul in Shadow! shaken
By the stormy winds of sin,
By the draught of deadly fire!
By the wiser world forsaken,
To the lowest herds akin,
He has but one fierce desire.

One desire, to quench in madness
Recollections dark and keen,
Memories of the wasted past.
How can he feel touch of gladness
Brooding over what has been,
While his conscience starts aghast?

Vain remorse! Behold his weakness
'Mid the revel and the rout,
Where dissolves his better will!
Where the host, with cunning sleekness,
Hands the treacherous wine about,
Or a draught more deadly still.

Now with mingled curse and clamour
Drink's poor victims rouse the brawl,
With wild brain and tainted breath;
Sing, blaspheme, and reel and stammer,
Reckless, ruthless, shameless all,
'Mid the blazonry of death.

But the darkling Soul! Oh, sorrow!
How he struggles through the night
Of a phantom-haunted sleep!
Till the sweet dawn of the morrow
Shows his helplessness and blight!—
Angels, ye have cause to weep!

Home has no regards and graces
For this waif on Ruin's wild,
And he seeks no solace there.
Wasted forms and gloomy faces
Cannot make him reconciled
To that dwelling of despair.

Yet, that Soul was once unclouded,
Quick with intellectual fire,
Dignified with moral power;
Till the dread Temptation shrouded
Hope, and peace, and pure desire,
Which grew weaker every hour.

Exorcise him! drive the Demon
Out from his remorseful soul,
Out from his unquiet heart!
Lift him up, a grateful freeman,
With the means of self-control,
And ye do a noble part!

Exorcise him! not with preaching,
Not with language harsh and cold,
Not with looks of virtuous pride;
But with Charity's mild teaching,
With forgiveness manifold,
Till his soul is purified.

England, old heroic nation!
What avail thy lofty lore,
Moral precepts, mighty words?
Cleanse thee from this degradation,
Which within thy sea-girt shore
Slayeth more than all thy swords!