The Valley Virginian. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1865-1895, 1879-01-09
SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF GOLD.
By ELIZA COOK.

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 peasants home
The mental serf. the pirate bold
All. all are ruled by the spirit OF gold.
spread my sceptre and put to flght
Stern poverty's croakiHg bird OF night;
And when come. it's passing strange.
To note the swift and wondrous change;
rest with one whose idiot tongue
Was the scorn of the old and Jest OF the yourgs
But flattering worshippers soon crawl round.
And the rich mans sense and wit are found;
Some lowly child Of earth has erred.
And mercy breathes no lenient word,
The fallen one becomes mark
For every human blood-hounds bark;
Virtue can spare no plying 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 SHINING one,
And dark are the deeds that may be done.
Vice in its high career may reign,
It meets no bar, 1t leaves no stain;
Passion and crime may wear the mask.
No hand will strip. no lip will task;
Inc record OF SlN may De unrOilcus
None read, If it's traced in letters OF gold;
The dame has come to her waning years.
And man goes By with laughing jeers;
Who, who can love! What creature seeks
The softness OF such wrinkled cheeks;
But To- she is rich and scores will bring
The lovers vow and the bridal ring;
And many heart so bought and sold,
Had lived to curse the spirit OF gold.
Does il not pain the breast to note
How the eyes Of the aged will glisten and glcat,
Bow the hands will count with careful stealth.
Der the glowing stores OF useless wealth;
They bend to me with martyrs knee.
And many time have laughed to see
The man of four-score. pale and cold.
Stinting his fire to save his gold;
Pile on your masses, add heap to heap.
While those around you sta rye and weep:
But forget not hoary-headed slave,
That thou, not gold, must fill the grave;
Thou can'st not tiggle and bargain for breath.
Thy Golfers won't serve to bar out death;
Thou must be poor when the churchyard stone |
And the shroud will be sill thou can'st call thina
own;
Hatred dwells in the poor mans 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 are.
Though even crave to be fed with Lille,
Gold, gold will find the ready knife;
The patriot boasts his burning zeal
For tie peoples good and country's veal;
But let me whisper word In his ear,
And freedom and truth become less dear;
The honest friend will turn aspy,
The witness swear to a hideous lie
Oh ! the souls are unnumbered and crimes untold
That are warped and wrought by the spirit OF gold
work much evil. but yet, oh yet,
I reign with pride when my throne is set
In the good mans 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 part
OF Its riches to gladd IN the toil-worn heart;
That loathes the chance of a rafting dice,
And turns from the gambler s. haunt OF vice;
That does not watch with frenzied zeal
The tossing throw or circiing deal;
That squanders not with a spendthiift taste,
Nor let's glad plenty run to waste;
But saves enough 10 give or lend
The starving foe or needy friend;
Glory ia mine when 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 gripping dotard or selfish heir;
But wisely scatter the talents ye hold
And blessings shall fall on the spirit of gold.
fNsw York Observer.