# Poems (Victor)/Lines to a Lump of Virgin Gold

LINES TO A LUMP OF VIRGIN GOLD.
Dull, yellow, heavy, lusterless— With less of radiance than the burnished tress, Crumpled on Beauty's forehead; clodish, cold, Kneaded together with the common mold; Worn by sharp contact with the fretted edges Of ancient drifts, or prisoned in deep ledges; Hidden within some mountain's rugged breast From man's desire and quest— Would thou couldst speak and tell the mystery That shrines thy history!
Yet 'tis of little consequence, Today, to know how them wert made, or whence Earthquake and flood have brought thee; them art here, At once the master that men love and fear; Whom they have sought by many strange devices, In ancient riverbeds; in interstices Of hardest quartz; upon the wave-wet strand, Where curls the tawny sand; By mountain torrents hurried to the main, And thence hurled back again:—
Yes, suffered, dared, and patiently Offered up everything, O gold, to thee— Home, wife and children, native soil, and all That once they deemed life's sweetest, at thy call; ​Fled over burning plains; in deserts fainted; Wearied for months at sea—yet ever painted Thee as the shining Mecca, that to gain Invalidated pain, Cured the sick soul—made nugatory evil Of man or devil.
Alas, and well-a-day! we know What idle dreams were these that fooled men so. On yonder hillside sleep in nameless graves, To which they went untended, the poor slaves Of fruitless toil; the victims of a fever Called homesickness—no remedy found ever; Or slain by vices that grow rankly where Men madly do and dare, In alternations of high hope and deep abysses Of recklessnesses.
Painfully, and by violence, Even as heaven is taken, thou wert dragged whence Nature had hidden thee—whose face is worn With anxious furrows, and her bosom torn In the hard strife—and ever yet there lingers Upon these hills work for the effacing fingers Of time, the healer, who makes all things seem A half forgotten dream; Who smooths deep furrows and lone graves together, By touch of wind and weather.
​Thou heavy, lusterless, dull clod, Digged from the earth like a base, common sod, I wonder at thee, and thy power to hold The world in bond to thee, thou yellow gold. Yet do I sadly own thy fascination, And would I gladly show my estimation By giving house-room to thee, if thou'lt come And cumber up my home;— I'd even promise not to call attention To these things that I mention.
"The King can do no wrong," and thou Art King indeed to most of us, I trow. Thou'rt an enchanter, at whose sovereign will All that there is of progress, learning, skill, Of beauty, culture, grace—and I might even Include religion, though that flouts at heaven— Comes at thy bidding, flies before thy loss— And yet men call thee dross— If thou art dross, then I mistaken be Of thy identity.
Ah, solid, weighty, beautiful! How could I first have said that thou wert dull? How could have wondered that men willingly Gave up their homes, and toiled and died for thee? Theirs was the martyrdom in which was planted A glorious state, by precious memories haunted; ​Ours is the comfort, ease, the power, and fame Of an exalted name; Theirs was the struggle of a proud ambition— Ours the full fruition.
Thou, yellow nugget, wert the star That drew these willing votaries from afar, 'Twere wrong to call thee lusterless or base, That lighted onward all the human race. Emblem them art, in every song or story, Of highest excellence and brightest glory; Thou crown'st the angels, and enthronest Him Who made the cherubim. My reverent thought, indeed, is not withholden, O nugget golden!