Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE ENEMY IN THE GATE; TO BRITANNIA, by JANET HAMILTON Poet's Biography First Line: Nay, all this availeth thee nothing Last Line: The captives of drink, on her shore. Alternate Author Name(s): Hamilton, Janet Thompson Subject(s): Alcoholism & Alcoholics; England; Evil; Social Protest; Temperance; Drunkards; Alcohol Abuse; English; Prohibition | ||||||||
NAY, all this availeth thee nothing Thy prestige, thy power, and estate, Thy glory, honour, and riches; An enemy sits in the gate. Thy place 'mong the nations is highest; Britannia, thou sitt'st as a Queen: Unequalled in commercein warfare Unrivall'd thy conquests have been. The seed of the Word ever sowing, Thou toilest still early and late; Yet all this availeth thee nothing, Thy enemy sits in the gate. Thy charities great and abundant Relief to the needy dispense To open the portals of knowledge, Unsparing of time and expense. Yet all this availeth thee nothing Thy commerce, thy conquests, and state; Thy charities, teachings, and sowings, Thy enemy sits in the gate. For in thee for ever abideth A demon most potent and fell, The land is bestrewn with his victims, His slain, who their numbers may tell? The cup of deep anguish he brimmeth, For parents bemoaning the fate Of sons in the clutch of the demon, Who sits evermore in the gate. The wife often steepeth her pillow With tears, as she listens by night The voice and the tread of the demon, Whose breath sheddeth cursing and blight. He filleth the jail and the workhouse With numbers astounding and great; He feedeth the hulks and the gibbet, And still he sits fast in the gate. On children, pale, rugged, and famished, He blows with his pestilent breath, They wither and wander in darkness, And pine in the shadows of death. We struggle to vanquish the demon, To banish him furth of the State, To save from perdition its victims, But still he sits fast in the gate So all this availeth us nothing, While revenue coffers he fills With gold, from his fiery Alembics, Distillery coppers and stills. Avaunt thee! dread demon, avaunt thee! Too long we have courted our fate, Drunk deep of thy cup of enchantment, And, perishing, fell in the gate. Britannia, who lately delivered The captives of dark Theodore, Has captives by thousands in bondage, The captives of Drink, on her shore. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING, WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES TEMPER by CLARA EXLINE BOCKOVEN A TRUCKER DRIVES THROUGH HIS LOST YOUTH by DAVID BOTTOMS THE FIGHTING WORD by BERTON BRALEY THE METHOD OF THE MAD MULLAH by BERTON BRALEY ON A PROHIBITIONIST POEM by GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON A MAIDEN'S DREAM by ROBERT GREENE OUR PROGRAM by ARTHUR GUITERMAN A BALLAD FOUNDED ON A REAL INCIDENT WHICH OCCURED IN HIGH LIFE by JANET HAMILTON |
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