# The Conservative (Lovecraft)/July 1915/A Dream of the Golden Age

A Dream of the Golden Age.
By Ira A. Cole.
"Ver erat aeternum, placidique tepentibus auris Mulcebant zephyri natos sine semine flores".
- Ovid
One day, whilst wand'ring idly by a stream, My truant thoughts forsook me for a dream. And as I loiter'd 'neath the pleasing shade Of those green aisles, by wondrous Nature made, A spirit presence took me by the hand, And in enchantment led me through a land Whose stately beauty told of bygone days, When Nature's children, at their simple plays, In careless freedom wander'd o'er the lea, Nor knew convention's curse like you and me. And while we wander'd down that pleasant shore, My spirit guide told wondrous tales of yore, And strove by magic, and in mystic ways, To show the splendour of those other days: The days when all the world was bright and fair, And gods and satyres breath'd the bracing air, When nymphs and naiades of snowy blue; Nor sought a dull decorum to display, But drest in Nature's garments, went their way. When heroes, god-like and of mighty mien, Sped in unfetter'd freedom 'cross the sheen Of noble rivers, whose gay waters flow'd Untrammel'd where first Nature mark'd the road. Nor sought they other worlds than theirs to know; Content as kings where now but paupers grow. Well pleas'd were they with Earth and all her store, Nor thought, nor car'd, nor wanted they for more. With simple, grave, unfearing, childlike trust. They bow'd at Beauty's shrine, nor knew the lust Of cank'ring Gold, nor car'd they to defile Their lives with those false creeds and doctrines vile, On which Pollution's litter glut their souls: They drank Life's wine from pantheistic bow's. And not in dingy temples built by man, But 'neath the dome that Heav'n's high arches span, They saw their God, nor fear'd to meet Him so, In leaf, or tree, or where the grasses grow.
Theirs was the mighty God who rul'd by love The land, the sea, the starry worlds above, Theirs were the days when merry minstrels stroll'd O'er all the earth, and fairy music troll'd Across green fields where dainty sylvan maids With beardless shepherd lads, 'neath oaken shakes, Were wont to dance the merry time away, Whilst piping Pan breath'd forth some wondrous lay. Theirs was Earth's mystic, shadowy childhood time, Ere Culture came from Hell's sulphuric clime, To teach degen'rate Man Corruption's smirk, And turn him to a foul, dishonour'd shirk, Whose craven soul must bow to putrid wealth, And for his vaunted virtues crush, by stealth, The only friend his fancies ever know: The God who taught. Perdition to eschew.
Note: The Conservative wishes to call particular attention to the foregoing remarkable lines, which constitute the debut of our gifted Western Manuscript Manager as a poet. Mr. Ira Cole, though of profoundly poetical temperament, and inspired by the natural grandeur of his native West, never attempted verse until a very recent date, his "Dream of the Golden Age" being only his second metrical effort. When we consider the extreme rapidity with which he has acquired ease in heroic verse, we find reason to expect great things from his pen in the near future. His "Lines to Lord Byron" will appear in The Forget-me-not.