The Winslow mail., 1900-03-22
The Monetary Problem.
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THE FOOL.

Vera Zarovitch, Authoress of MiZora, a
Prophecy of the Future Civilization.
There was fool and he made his prayer
To golden calf, erected where
Positions of state were bought and sold
Like bales of cotton, for so much gold
The fool had gold, plenty of gold
And the rights of men he bought and sold.
He lorded it over the rich and great
And trod on the lowly of poor estate.
The sacred laws of the government
He set aside, for his own intent.
Whom he could not buy he reviled as knaves
For Scorning the price that would make
them slaves.
He lived like Babylon's king of old,
To rule or ruin by power of gold.
This fool had mills where his countrymen
Were driven like beasts of dullest ken.
Wretched and hungry they toiled; yet still
He made more Golfers for them to fill.
He refused to see that his golden gain
Were lives and souls that he had slain.
He only saw the power it gave
To fetter stronger, gaunt labor's slave.
This fool had religion-nay do not smile
He believed that gold cen the Lord could
beguile;
He worshiped; twas an edif1ce stately and
grand,
With ease and splendor on every hand;
Through stained glass windows the mel
lowed rays
Round the golden lecturn softly plays;
The carpeted aisles are soft to the tread,
AS tender speech above the dead;
The affairs glow with the rarest bloom
OF flowers that eXhale rich perfume.
The grand, deep notes of the organ roll
Magnificent anthems for his soul
And the fool bends, lightly, his sanity
knee,
And prays for-himself and family.
The well-paid servant of God on high
Would bewail the day when this fool should
die.
If James and Zebedee-Christ's chosen kin,
His temple of worship should enter in,
7 fear the smell of their fishing boat
The rich, proud nose would quickly note.
The air. that was heavy with arts perfume,
Could hardly their briny ooze o'ercome;
And the stately usher would show the door
To these brothers of Christ-these fisher
poor
The Lord hath love for the poorest on
If he brings to His altar a true hearts
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We are told that He scourged from His
temple door
The changers of money-the curse of the
poor.
For the million of gold this fool had given
TO build this church he had CALLED and
driven
Ten thousand souls to a death of despair;
Miners who toiled in the vilest air
To earn the wealth that his precious soul
Could be bought of the Lord for a million
dole.
oh! woe, is the fool who has failed to read
In the pages of time proud labor's need;
He has felled your forests, and sowed your
grain,
He has built your ships that plow the main,
He has delved in the mines vile, dark
For warmth and cheer to gladden. your
home;
And for these years of narrowing toll,
You take his manhood as so much spoil;
And spent and dying he sinks to rest
BY the babe that starved at his poor wife's
breast.
The fool cared not for this pitiful plea
AS he feasted the great, right royalty.
There rose an army ten thousand strong,
The army of toll, to redress this wrong;
To dethrone this fool who stood alone,
Lord of their birthright from zone to zone;
They bore on their banner a child at rest,
A babe that had starved at its mothers
breast;
They took the fool to his golden bin
They opened the door, and the fool went in;
They buried him deep in his golden bed,
With the flag of liberty at his head,
On which was pictured babe at rest
Starved to death at its mothers breast.
National Watchman.