Drink and Die
Dublin Core
Title
Drink and Die
Creator
R. W. Lyle
Source
http://addison.vt.edu/record=b1775388~S1
Publisher
Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University
Date
May 1877
Contributor
Peter Royal, Abbey Williams
Rights
Permission to publish images from The Gray Jacket must be obtained from Special Collections, Virginia Tech.
Format
Text
Language
English
Type
poem
Identifier
LD5655.V8 L4, ser.1, v.2, no.7 (May 1877), p.6
Text Item Type Metadata
Text
The following very touching poem was composed by R. W. Lyle, of Danville, Va., in the year of 1869. Mr. Lyle was a self-made man, of whom all true Virginians who knew him were proud. As a lawyer he hardly had a superior, and but few equals; as a poet Virginians could afford to honor him. He read law while quite young and began the practice of his profession under many difficulties. He soon became a leader of one of the most talented bars in the State; that of Pittsylvania. There he remained a leader until he fell into the habit of drinking, so fatal to many of our best men. That, as a matter of course, caused his decline which was as rapid as his ascent. After he lost all hope of recovering himself, he wrote the following poem, which will illustrate the character of the man:
I have been to the funeral of all my hopes,
And buried them one by one;
Not a word was said, not a tear was shed,
When the mournful task was done.
Slowly and sadly I turned me 'round,
And sought my silent room;
And there alone by the cold hearth stone,
I wooed the midnight gloom.
The dying embers on the hearth,
Gave out their flickering light;
As if to say this is the way,
Thy life shall close in night.
I wept aloud in anguish sore,
O'er the blight of prospects fair;
While demons laughed and eagles quaffed
My tears like nectar rare.
Through hell's red halls an echo rung,
An echo loud and long;
As in the bowl I plunged my soul,
In the night of madness strong.
And there within that sparkling glass,
I know the cause to lie;
This all men own from zone to zone,
Yet millions drink and die.
I have been to the funeral of all my hopes,
And buried them one by one;
Not a word was said, not a tear was shed,
When the mournful task was done.
Slowly and sadly I turned me 'round,
And sought my silent room;
And there alone by the cold hearth stone,
I wooed the midnight gloom.
The dying embers on the hearth,
Gave out their flickering light;
As if to say this is the way,
Thy life shall close in night.
I wept aloud in anguish sore,
O'er the blight of prospects fair;
While demons laughed and eagles quaffed
My tears like nectar rare.
Through hell's red halls an echo rung,
An echo loud and long;
As in the bowl I plunged my soul,
In the night of madness strong.
And there within that sparkling glass,
I know the cause to lie;
This all men own from zone to zone,
Yet millions drink and die.