An Illustrated Monthly Rural Magazine 
- FOR EVERY ONE WHO PLANTS A SEED OR TILLS A PLANT. - 
YOt. 4 . * 1883 . ~ WO/4* 
A 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 defiance. 
“What cans't thou say. Intemperance, 
Ere sentence dire be given. 
Since thou hast peopled hell below, 
And robbed the seats of heaven? 
Thou knewest 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 pain, 
What homes annoyed, what souls destroyed 
To fill the cnp 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 thj^ children while on earth, 
I bring them to thy bar.’’ 
The papers they are handed in, 
I trembled while 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 men, 
By paying so much gold. 
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 
Those desecrated holes; 
Those dens of drinking, gambling, wrong; 
Those dens of dark repute, 
Where vice, with Bacchanalian song, 
Sinks men 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 poorhouse rooms to fill, 
And many a helpless 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 a 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 will shield you. 
“I paid them for their 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 all was true, 
And all this ruin, all this curse, 
Is caused by me and 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 , in the Lever. 
For so much gold we license thee 
To ruin, kill, destroy, 
To drive from home its brightest gems 
And drown each cup of joV ; 
To excite men to deeds of strife, 
To angry words and blows, 
