Poems (Cook)/Song of the Spirit of Gold

by Eliza Cook

SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF GOLD.

Mine is the rare magician's hand;
Mine is the mighty, fairy wand!
Monarchs may boast, but none can hold
Such powerful sway as the spirit of Gold.
The wigwam tent, the regal dome,
The senator's bench, the peasant home;
The menial serf, the pirate bold,—
All, all are ruled by the spirit of Gold.

I spread my sceptre, and put to flight.
Stern Poverty's croaking bird of night;
And where I come 'tis passing strange
To note the swift and wondrous change
I rest with the one whose idiot tongue
Was the scorn of the old, and jest of the young;
But flattering worshippers soon crawl round,
And the rich man's wit and sense are found.

Some lowly child of earth has err'd,
And Mercy breathes no lenient word;
The fallen one becomes a mark
For every human bloodhound's bark.
Virtue can spare no pitying sigh;
Justice condemns with freezing eye;
Till the pressing load of blight and blame
Goad on to deeper guilt and shame.

But let me shield the sinning one,—
And dark are the deeds that may be done;
Vice in its "high career" may reign,
It meets no bar, it leaves no stain.
Passion and Crime may wear the mask,
No hand will strip, no lip will task;
The record of sin may be unroll'd,
None read, if 'tis traced in letters of Gold.

The dame has come to her waning years—
And Man goes by with his laughing jeers.
Who, who can love? what creature seeks
The softness of such wrinkled checks!
But, lo! she is rich, and scores will bring
The lover's vow and the bridal ring;
And many a heart, so bought and sold,
Has lived to curse the spirit of Gold.

Does it not pain the breast to note
How the eyes of the aged will glisten and gloat?
How the hands will count with careful stealth
O'er the growing stores of useless wealth?
They bend to me with a martyr's knee—
And many a time have I laugh'd to see
The man of fourscore, pale and cold,
Stinting his fire to save his Gold.

Pile on to your masses, add heap to heap,
While those around you may starve and weep;
But forget not, hoary-headed slave,
That thou, not gold, must fill a grave:
Thou canst not haggle and bargain for breath,
Thy coffers won't serve to bar out death;
Thou must be poor when the churchyard stone
And the shroud will be all that thou canst own.

Hatred dwells in the poor man's breast,
But the foe may safely be his guest;
Though his wrongs may madden to despair,
The injured one must brook and bear.
But let the princely heart desire
Revenge to quench its raging fire;
Though it even crave to be fed with life,
Gold, Gold will find the ready knife.

The patriot boasts his burning zeal
In the people's good and his country's weal;
But let me whisper a word in his ear,
And freedom and truth become less dear;—
The honest friend will turn a spy,
The witness swear to the hideous lie:
Oh! the souls are unnumber'd, and crimes untold,
That are warp'd and wrought by the spirit of Gold.

I work much evil,—but yet, oh! yet,
I reign with pride when my throne is set
In the good man's heart, where Feeling gives
Its aid to the meanest thing that lives
My glorious home is made in the breast
That loves to see the weary rest;
That freely and promptly yields a part
Of its riches to gladden the toil-worn heart;
That loathes the chance of the rattling dice,

And turns from the gambler's haunts of vice;
That does not watch with frenzied zeal
The tossing throw or circling deal;
That squanders not with spendthrift haste,
Nor lets glad Plenty run to Waste;
But saves enough to give or lend
The starving foe or needy friend.

Glory is mine when I shed my light
On the heart that cannot be lured from right;
That seeks to spread the cheering ray
On all that come around its way.
Cursed is wealth when it falls to the share
Of the griping dotard or selfish heir!
But wisely scatter the talents ye hold,
And blessings shall fall on the spirit of Gold.