The Golden Age poem – Alfred Austin

Long ere the Muse the strenuous chords had swept,

And the first lay as yet in silence slept,

A Time there was which since has stirred the lyre

To notes of wail and accents warm with fire;

Moved the soft Mantuan to his silvery strain,

And him who sobbed in pentametric pain;

To which the World, waxed desolate and old,

Fondly reverts, and calls the Age of Gold.

Then, without toil, by vale and mountain side,

Men found their few and simple wants supplied;

Plenty, like dew, dropped subtle from the air,

And Earth’s fair gifts rose prodigal as prayer.

Love, with no charms except its own to lure,

Was swiftly answered by a love as pure.

No need for wealth; each glittering fruit and flower,

Each star, each streamlet, made the maiden’s dower.

Far in the future lurked maternal throes,

And children blossomed painless as the rose.

No harrowing question `why,’ no torturing `how,’

Bent the lithe frame or knit the youthful brow.

The growing mind had naught to seek or shun;

Like the plump fig it ripened in the sun.

From dawn to dark Man’s life was steeped in joy,

And the gray sire was happy as the boy.

Nature with Man yet waged no troublous strife,

And Death was almost easier than Life.

Safe on its native mountains throve the oak,

Nor ever groaned ‘neath greed’s relentless stroke.

No fear of loss, no restlessness for more,

Drove the poor mariner from shore to shore.

No distant mines, by penury divined,

Made him the sport of fickle wave or wind.

Rich for secure, he checked each wish to roam,

And hugged the safe felicity of home.

Those days are long gone by; but who shall say

Why, like a dream, passed Saturn’s Reign away?

Over its rise, its ruin, hangs a veil,

And naught remains except a Golden Tale.

Whether ’twas sin or hazard that dissolved

That happy scheme by kindly Gods evolved;

Whether Man fell by lucklessness or pride,-

Let jarring sects, and not the Muse, decide.

But when that cruel Fiat smote the earth,

Primeval Joy was poisoned at its birth.

In sorrow stole the infant from the womb,

The agëd crept in sorrow to the tomb.

The ground, so bounteous once, refused to bear

More than was wrung by sower, seed, and share.

Ofttimes would ruthless winds or torrents raze

The ripening fruit of toilsome nights and days.

Each one in turn grew jealous of his own,

And fenced his patch with ditch and churlish stone.

As greed uprose, and greed engendered strife,

Contention raged coincident with life.

Man against man, maid against maiden turned,

And the soft breast with envious passions burned.

The loss of one was hailed as others’ gain,

And pleasure took unnatural birth from pain.

Goaded by woe, and through tradition’s lore

Mindful of all the blissfulness of yore,

The Human Race, its sorrows to assuage,

Dreamed afar off a second Golden Age;

Not in the dim irrevocable Past,

But in a Future just as vague and vast.

The prophet’s lips, the poet’s flattering pen,

Revelled in forecasts of that golden Then.

The days should come when grief would be no more,

And Peace and Plenty rule from shore to shore;

All men alike enjoy what none did earn,

And even more than Saturn’s Reign return.

As years rolled on, as centuries went by,

And still that Promised Time seemed no more nigh,

Mankind at length, outwearied with delays,

Gave up all hope of those seductive days.

Then other prophets, other scribes arose,

A nearer, surer Eden to disclose.

`O, long-befooled!’ they said, `awake, and deem

The Past a tale, the Future but a dream.

Here, in the living Present, act your part,

Straining its vulgar blessings to your heart.

Let hand with hand and brain with brain contend,

And each one labour to some selfish end.

In wealth and riot, luxury and power,

Baffle the mockery of the transient hour.

If thousands fall, if tens of thousands bleed,

Will not a hundred, or a score, succeed?

Let those who cannot yield to those who can-

Fate has its piles of victims; why not Man?

Better a furious fight where some one wins,

Than sluggish life which ends as it begins.

Vain was the bard who, whilst the World was new,

‘Twixt men and beasts the fond distinction drew,

That these confine their downward gaze to earth,

Whilst man looks up, enamoured of his birth.

Not in the skies, but deep beneath the soil,

There will you find your happiness and spoil.

Enough for brutes its simple face to know,

But godlike man must pierce and delve below.

Deep in its bowels seek the shining ore,

And at its touch shall Saturn reign once more.

For him whose thews are sound, whose vision clear,

Whose purpose firm, the Golden Age is here.’

Never from cave or tripod, mount or glade,

Issued a voice so welcomed, so obeyed.

From zone to zone the Golden Gospel flew,

And in its train mankind obedient drew.

See from their seats the ancient Gods dethroned,

Altars upset, and oracles disown’d.

The Muses, scared, conceal the smothered lyre;

No longer prized, the Graces swift retire;

Virtue, a butt for ribalds, seeks her shroud,

And even Venus veils herself in cloud.

Religion, Ethics, all men erst adored,

Hymned on the harp, or fought for with the sword,

All lofty scopes, all ends esteemed of old,

Dissolve like mist before the rage for gold.

The priest for gold makes traffic of his robe;

For gold the soldier desolates the globe;

The poet shapes for gold his venal lays;

Through gold Vice stalks caparisoned with praise.

Tempted by gold, the virgin sells her charms,

Though no Immortal slips into her arms.

Saddled with gold, the adventurer can buy

Titles, precedence, place, and dignity.

High, middle, low, the young, the ripe, the old,

Man, woman, child, live, die, are damned for Gold.

Soon as the youthful mind begins to ope,

It searches Life’s significance and scope;

And, fed by generous impulse year by year,

Dreams for itself some glorious career.

Its shall it be, instructed by the Muse,

Truth to abet, and beauty to diffuse;

With full-blown sail, and genius at the helm,

To steer men’s thoughts to a serener realm.

Perhaps the ingenuous boy would fain recall

Tintoret’s canvas, Memmi’s fresco’d wall;

With godlike pencil purify the mart,

And life ennoble with the breath of Art.

Maybe he burns, by Plato’s failure fired,

To scale the heights which every wing have tired,

Seize first each part, then comprehend the whole,

And solve the eternal problem of the Soul.

Be these his aims, or, nobler still, to train

His kind to mutiny till Virtue reign,

Soon doth he learn to count his lovely schemes

A host of bubbles in a world of dreams.

Experience whispers early, Have a care!

Who with the Muse would live must live on air.

The tempting maid is but a poet’s lie,

`Who gave to song what gold could never buy.’

Confront the world, take counsel with the throng;

Their verdict what? `The thing’s not worth a song.’

Are you content you now have learnt your price?

Come, sink the Muse, and don’t be quite so nice.

Start a new Company, and float the shares,

Then lunch with Ministers and dine with Mayors.

Pimp for a Party, praise a Premier’s heart,

Head a subscription, and then shine-a Bart.

Return your income fifty thousand clear-

The devil’s in it, or you’ll die a peer.

Success so great is never done by halves-

‘Tis only virtue, when ’tis greatest, starves.

Perhaps his breast, untutored yet to serve,

Spurns the base counsel with a proud reserve;

For Youth is stubborn, and when Nature draws,

In vain a parent’s warning, wisdom’s saws.

Let cravens straight their impotence confess,

And sell their birthright for a filthy mess;

In flowers see, bee-like, nought but stuff for hives,

And for foul lucre prostitute their lives;

They have not failed who never once have tried,

Or, if they failed, they failed for want of pride.

He, he at least his soul will ne’er demean,

But ‘mong the foul will keep his honour clean.

O touching sight, to witness day by day

His splendid generous day-dreams fade away!

His sire reproaches, and his brothers scoff,

His mother doubts, his sisters e’en fall off.

The neighbours pity, strangers deem him mad;

Girls, smiling, whisper, What a foolish lad!

Meanwhile his compeers, started in the race,

Are swiftly marching on to power and place.

One makes a coup, and weds a wife of rank;

Another’s junior partner in a bank.

A third in sugar with unscriptural hand,

Traffics, and builds a lasting house on sand.

A fourth, for beer and piety renowned,

Owns all the publics in the country round;

Its drink adulterates with face demure,

But burns with zeal to keep opinion pure;

Cares not one jot for bodies drunk or sick,

But scans your soul like a new Dominick.

The fifth, the patron of a new balloon,

Projects a Company to reach the moon;

Baits his prospectus with a batch of peers,

And vows nought pays like money in the Spheres.

Shares in the moon advanced-advancing still.

Then comes a crash-stock guaranteed at nil.

But sure, the man is ruined? Not at all;

He scarce can tumble who has sense to crawl.

Your modern Icarus is much too wise

On his own pinions to attempt the skies-

On others’ soaring follies doth he rise.

Long ere the bubble burst his shares were sold;

Just at that moment he had need of gold.

Singed wings, you know, are but for simple folk;

He, with his peers, ‘scapes safe from flame and smoke,

And buys a borough with the happy stroke.

Few are the souls who die for Cato’s creed:

To fail seems base, when all around succeed.

Foiled in his purpose, both by foe and friend,

Through noble means to reach a noble end,

The baffled boy forswears his cherished dream,

And learns to swim, like others, with the stream.

Keen to recover precious moments lost,

And taught by bitter tasks what Virtue cost,

He midst the rush, whilst others rise and fall,

Swims on, the most unscrupulous of all.

Let others chouse with care, he cheats with pluck,

And millions stake their all upon his luck.

His daring overawes the small, the great,

And whilst he plunders they but peculate.

He lures the easy, makes the fat his spoil,

Pares the lean wage of proletarian toil;

Swindles the widow of her hoarded mite,

Drags the poor pensioner once more to fight;

Robs age of rest, and youth of prospects fair,

Plunges the sanguine bridegroom in despair;

Severs the ties made sacred long by home,

And sends the son from sire across the foam;

Dashes the faith of plighted swain and maid,

And helps alone the cynic sexton’s spade:

Does all that well beseems a Fallen Star-

It needs a Lucifer to fall so far!

Sometimes will Fortune on the traitor scowl,

And e’en with gold not pay a deed so foul.

He who was born a glittering child of light,

Trenchant as Raphael, as Ithuriel bright,

Yet sells his soul a vulgar prize to reap,

And for brute guerdons holds his honour cheap,

Too often finds that he who, grovelling, flies

From unrewarded reverie in the skies,

And seeks in venal efforts to employ

The gifts God formed for beauty and for joy,

Makes but a barren barter of his birth,

And Heaven foregoes, without securing earth.

See how he sinks! The more he strains to clutch

Terrestrial spoil, unworthy of his touch,

It seems, for him, to take elusive shapes,

And like a shadow from his grasp escapes.

As baser wax his aims, more mean his scope,

More and still more he sprawls-the sport of Hope.

Still as he tries to suffocate his soul,

Farther beyond him seems the carnal goal.

In vain he turns to catch the favouring gale;

Becalmed he lies-he labours but to fail.

Poor and despised, he now would fain retrace

His erring steps to his first dwelling-place,

But finds, alas! baseness hath borne its fruit;

Wings long unused have withered at the root.

He who in vain has crawled in vain would fly,

And rots abandoned both by earth and sky.

Meaner his end than that poor tradesman’s doom,

Who, asked what words of honour on his tomb

His friends should place, with cynic touch replied,

`Here lies who, born a man, a grocer died!’

Whom doth this foe of human virtue spare?

Look round! More sweet its victims, the more fair.

Its natural slaves, who, spawned from wealth, are born

To Traffic’s tricks they lack the soul to scorn,

Whose lust for lucre is their proper lot,

It just as oft impoverishes as not.

‘Tis those in whom the Unseen God inspires

The restless leaven of divine desires;

Who, from the moment that they lisp, betray

An alien spirit housed within their clay;

Whose fretful youth life’s narrow limits chafe,

And yearns for worlds more spacious, if less safe;

Striving to reach, despite its fleshly thrall,

That larger Something which surrounds us all;-

These, these the souls-and not that baser band-

To whom Gold loves to stretch a helping hand;

With early smiles their generous aims to bless,

And lead them, blind, to ruinous success.

When Lelius chanted first his fragrant lays,

Men praised, and he was amply paid with praise.

Not salons’ sycophant, nor Fashion’s bard,

No glittering heaps did his sweet notes reward.

He was content with audience fit, though few,

When to his side the cunning demon drew.

`Your pen’s worth gold; you need but blunt its point;

Come, cut the Muse; the times are out of joint.

Fame’s well enough, but comfort has its laws;

You’ll make a damned poor supper off applause.

Sing, be select, and starve. Prose is the thing-

The thing that pays. The Million now is King.

Write gossip, scandal, slander-what you will;

A well-filled purse awaits a ready quill.’

The curst insidious demon has his way,

And Grub-street swallows Lelius for aye.

Turn from the pen, and for a while survey

The wide domains which brush and canvas sway.

Enter those realms, and what do we behold?

Art, heavenly Art, the slave and pimp of gold!

Time was when its poor votaries were too proud

To sate the itch of a vain-glorious crowd,

Serve the mean aims of narrow personal pelf,

And swell the ignoble retinue of Self.

Only the State, which merges private ends,

Or sacred Church, which lifts them and extends,

Might then presume the artist’s craft to claim,

And paid him, happy, with immortal Fame.

Here, Friendship’s guest, where fairest Florence lies,

A dream in stone, stretched out before mine eyes,

I think of all the treasures there enshrined,

And what small dole nurtured each master mind;

Or led by memory o’er the classic chain

Which Umbrian slope divides from Tuscan plain,

I all the priceless unbought gems recall

That link with heaven Assisi’s frescoed wall;

Then, borne on wings of weakness, I repair

To mine own land, and groan to think that there,

Debased by Fashion to a venal trade,

Art counts its triumphs by its fortunes made;

Spurned by the State, and by the Church unsought,

Works but for wealth, and by the base is bought;

Stranger to altars, palaces, or domes,

Pampers the pomp of ostentatious homes.

How changed the days since Duccio’s hand of old

On Saints and Virgins lavished costly gold;

But for himself asked but a few poor crowns,

Less than we give to harlequins and clowns.

Now do our mercenary tricksters grudge

Almost the very canvas that they smudge;

Yet scan with greedy eyes the glittering heap

That opulent folly holds, for once, so cheap.

See, too, how Genius, when its touch was true,

On humble walls its lasting fancies drew;

Whose modern apes, ridiculously bold,

Hang their ephemeral daubs in frames of gold.

In vain doth Heaven, while Gold thus rules the earth,

With generous instincts sow the soul at birth.

Swift in the genial soil the seed takes root,

Then seeks the sun with many a venturous shoot.

But, ah, how soon the cruel outer air

Checks the brave growth and nips its promise fair!

Warmed by the glow of Tasso’s splendid lay,

Or borne by Dante to the gates of Day;

Softly seduced by Scott’s romantic strain

To deem all ends, excepting honour, vain;

Or nobly trained by Shelley’s burning song

To cherish an eternal feud with wrong,-

The simple girl constructs a future fair,

Rears a whole world of castles in the air,

And nowhere warned, or deaf to warning, deems

That life will clothe and justify her dreams.

As year by year the maiden grows apace,

And half the woman mantles in her face,

With sickening sense, sad eye, and sinking heart,

She sees her forecasts one by one depart.

Slowly, but, ah, too surely doth she find

That poets’ tales no longer rule mankind;

That Peace is homeless as the hunted hare,

And Love far less a shelter than a snare;

That godlike Valour meets a demon’s doom,

Whilst Prudence prospers even from the tomb;

That Youth, save schooled in Mammon’s miry ways,

Groans o’er the lapse of unrequited days;

That Beauty, Genius, all are vain and cold,

Till foully touched and fertilised by Gold.

Soon as the time so dear to mother’s vows

Draws nigh, to find the maid some fitting spouse,

Then most of all she learns what leading part

Is played by Gold in dramas of the heart.

Chance to young Hylas, beautiful as Dawn,

And sweet as fair, she feels her fancy drawn.

Are you a nymph? one whispers. Let him pass.

He doth but gather daisies in the grass.

Where your cool wave, hidden from human eyes,

In which to lure and love him till he dies?

Bid him rejoin his Hercules, and seize

The golden apples of the Hesperides;

And then perchance, should none more rich than he

Engage your love, you may his Hera be.

Alas, poor Hylas! worse than Mysian fate

Doth his meandering flowery feet await.

If that a Solon, versed in every art

Of song and science, touch the maiden’s heart,

The neighbours softly whisper, Have a care;

Can Erudition keep a chaise and pair?

Pundits, alas, like fools, must pay their bills,

And Knowledge figures sorrily in wills.

For single life learning is well enough,

But marriage should be made of sterner stuff.

Should Cato’s fame her pious soul attract,

The whole world cries, The woman must be cracked.

What! wed with Virtue! Is the girl awake?

Sure, she confounds the altar with the stake.

Send for the doctor. Try a change of air.

Swear Cato drinks. In war and love all’s fair.

Bring Croesus to the front. At four he’s free-

There’s no one left to swindle after three.

In one brief hour behold him curled and drest,

And borne on wings of fashion to the West!

What though to regions fondly deemed refined,

He brings his City manners, City mind,

And cynics titter?-he laughs best who wins,-

A Greenwhich dinner covers many sins.

What! dine with Croesus? Surely. Is a feast

One jot the worse because the host’s a beast?

He’s worse than that-a snob-a cad. Agreed;

But then his goblets smack of Ganymede?

Do some strange freaks his conversation mar?

He stops your censure with a prime cigar.

A Norway stream, a shooting-lodge in Perth,

In practice look uncommonly like worth.

The Town to hear some new soprano flocks.

You long to go? Well, Croesus has a box.

How at this hour are tickets to be got

For the Regatta? Croesus has a yacht.

Goodwood is here. Your hopes begin to flag.

One chance awaits you: Croesus has a drag.

You doat on Flower-shows: Croesus has a bone.

Be friends with Croesus, and the World’s your own.

Who could resist seductions such as these?

Or what could charm, if Croesus failed to please?

Blinded and bribed, the critical are cured,

And loud extol whom late they scarce endured.

Caressed and courted, Croesus grows the rage,

The type and glory of our Golden Age;

And Cato, Hylas, Solon, shoved aside,

Our heavenly maid is hailed as Croesus’ bride.

Shade of Lucretius! if thy lyre waxed wild

With sacred rage for Clytemnestra’s child,

And nought could hold thee as thy soul surveyed

The cursëd ills Religion can persuade,

How would thy verse impetuously shower

Sonorous scorn on Gold’s atrocious power;

Embalm its victims with a touch divine,

And damn the monster in one sounding line!

Can honeyed forms or stereotyped applause

Alter the scope of Heaven’s eternal laws?

What though with gifts should massive sideboards groan,

And every heart be glad except her own,

And troops of blooming girls behold with pride,

Perchance with envy, this resplendent bride;

Though vieing voices hail her Fashion’s queen,

And even a Bishop’s blessing crown the scene,

No rites, no rings, no altars, can avail

To make a sacred contract of a sale,

Stir the far depths of the reluctant mind,

Or join the hearts which love hath failed to bind.

If soul stands passive whilst the flesh is sold,

Is there no foul aroma in the gold?

Is the base barter covered by the price,

And do huge figures make the nasty nice?

The nameless outcast, prowling for her prey,

Renews her filthy bargain day by day;

Let Croesus give her what he gave his wife,

She’s virtuous too-at least, she’s his for life.

Croesus-but hold! Let Charity presume

That Croesus’ wife but dimly knew her doom.

The luckless maid, since knowledge comes too late,

In splendour seeks oblivion of her fate;

Of every tender pious aim bereft,

Hugs in despair the only idol left;

In alien worship seeks to be consoled,

And builds her hopes of happiness on Gold.

Gold rules her steps, determines her desires-

Mere puppet she, whilst Mammon jerks the wires.

Futile to ask if London suits her health-

Would you consult her doctor, not her wealth?

You soon are answered: Whether ill or well,

A house in Town is indispensable.

Where shall it be? On gravel or on clay?

Wherever tenants have the most to pay.

Price is the thing, not soil. If Fashion’s camp

Be pitched just here, what matter dry or damp?

But, health apart, ’tis known that Croesus’ wife,

If left to choose, prefers a country life.

Well, she shall have it when the Parks are brown,

And Fashion, wearied, hath dispersed the Town.

But whilst the woods are leafy, and the lanes

With lush wild-flowers rob life of half its pains;

While sweetest scents and softest sounds combine

To make existence, did they last, divine;

Not for the world must Croesus’ wife be missed

From fetid streets, foul rooms, and Fashion’s list;

And only thence to rural refuge flies

As, self-exhausted, pleasant Summer dies.

Say, shall we marvel, amid scenes like these,

With all to dazzle, but with nought to please,

If links of simple gold should fail to cleave,

And tempters prompt their webs not vainly weave?

See, Plutus, first in each ignoble strife,

Battered and bored, bethinks him of a wife.

The happy tidings, spreading through the West,

Fires each maternal mercenary breast.

The soaring dames parade their daughters’ charms,

To lure the hug of Plutus’ palsied arms;

And as brave Eld for one fair woman fought,

For one foul man our world to rage is wrought.

At last, opining he might chance do worse,

Plutus to proud Olympia flings his purse.

Olympia lifts it with triumphant smile,

Whilst round her crowds congratulating guile,

Escorts her to the altar, decks her brows

With orange-buds, then leaves her with her spouse,

Who, though his suit by golden showers throve,

Can grasp his Danaë with no thews of Jove.

O, who shall tell Olympia’s tale aright,

Each splendid day, each miserable night;

Her thirst divine by human draughts but slaked,

Her smiling face whilst the heart sorely ached,

Or note the edge whence one we loved so well

To sweet, seductive, base perdition fell?

I cast no stone, but half by rage consoled,

I snatch the lyre and curse this fiendish Gold.

Though Beauty’s fame oft spreads through all the land,

Splendour is far more curiously scanned;

And they who once upon Olympia threw

A passing glance, since she was fair to view,

Now gilded pomp and Ostentation’s choir

Attend her path, of gazing never tire;

Suck up her speech, translate her silent eyes,

Each movement, look, and posture scrutinise,

Stalk all her steps, as matron, friend, and wife,

And feed in greedy gossip on her life.

Not mine to follow to the noisome den

Where woman’s frailty stands the gaze of men,

And well-coached menials, limed with gold, detail

The piteous scenes that pass behind the veil.

Enough to know that, thanks to wealth, once more

Plutus can woo, e’en richer than before.

The tottering cuckold leaves the court consoled;

Considerate juries tip his horns with Gold!

Sure some malicious demon in the brain

It needs must be, drives men reputed sane

To spurn the joys adjacent to their feet,

In the fond chase of this receding cheat?

Say, when the Stoic on his tranquil height,

And swinish crowd, sweating in miry fight,

In every age a like conclusion reach,

And sage and simple one same sermon preach-

That whether Heaven hath made one serf or king,

Reason alone true happiness can bring-

Can we but stand astounded as we scan

This race untaught, unteachable, called Man?

Would you be truly rich, how small the heap

Your aims require, the price how passing cheap!

A modest house, from urban jars removed,

By thrist selected, yet by taste approved;

Whose walls are gay with every sweet that blows,

Whose windows scented by the blushing rose;

Whose chambers few to no fine airs pretend,

Yet never are too full to greet a friend;

A garden plot, whither unbidden come

Bird’s idle pipe and bee’s laborious hum;

Smooth-shaven lawn, whereon in pastime’s hours

The mallet rings within a belt of flowers;

A leafy nook where to enjoy at will

Gibbon’s rich prose or Shakespeare’s wizard quill;

A neighbouring copse wherein the stock-doves coo,

And a wild stream unchecked sings all day through;

Two clean bright stalls, where midday, night, and morn,

Two good stout roadsters champ their well-earned corn;

A few learned shelves from modern rubbish free,

Yet always, Mill, with just a place for Thee;

Head ne’er at dawn by clownish bouts obscured,

And limbs by temperate exercise inured;

A few firm friendships made in early life,

Yet doubly fastened by a pleasant wife;

A wholesome board, a draught of honest wine;-

This is true wealth; and this, thank Heaven, is mine!

And though you ransacked worlds from shore to shore,

From sea to sky, you could not give me more.

And if, all these beyond, I still should crave

Something impossible this side the grave,

Let humbler souls my soaring hopes forgive-

After my life still in my verse to live.

Well would it be if Mammon’s feverish rage

Did but the vulgar and the base engage;

If those alone whose undistinguished name,

Haply if fouled, would shed no slur on Fame,

Sought in this sordid, despicable strife,

To find the good and snatch the crown of life.

But in the mire of venal fight embroiled,

Have we not seen the noblest scutcheons soiled?

Not the proud thought that many a splendid fray,

When crowns obeyed the fortunes of the day,

To stalwart arms its pregnant issue owed,

Whose glorious blood in their own body flowed;

Not the remembrance that their sires did share

The toils that made this England great and fair;

Not their resplendent pedigree, nor all

The line of haught fierce faces on the wall,

That tells the tale of their ancestral hall,

Have yet availed, in days like these, to hold

Men, thus seduced, from the coarse race for Gold.

Have we not seen the generous beast, whose sires

Once bore their fathers into battle’s fires,

By titled gamblers’ mercenary taste

His once stout loins to nimble flanks debased,

Made for curst gold to sweat through all his pores,

The panting pet of blacklegs, lords, and whores?

On such a course what dismal woes await,

Let the world learn by young Lucullus’ fate.

Whilst yet the bloom of boyhood matched his cheek,

And all his duty was to master Greek.

Make a long score, bound o’er the running brook,

Cleave the clear wave, Lucullus had a book.

No glorious volume was’t, whose subtle page

The wisdom breathed of many a studious age.

No wealth of wit, no Learning’s garnered sheaves

Lay, like a treasure, lurking in its leaves.

But, in their place, crabbed Calculation scrawled

Symbols which shocked and figures that appalled.

Not for sweet Fancy, nor the simple stake

Of generous sports, did he his tasks forsake.

Ere sentiment could move, or sense control,

Adventurous Greed had swallowed up his soul.

If Gold Acrisius’ Tower of Brass could flout,

How will the playground shut the monster out?

Thus by his own base instincts first betrayed,

The race of harpies lend their shameful aid,

With evil eye his smiling lands behold,

And smooth his path to infamy with gold.

At length behold him grown to man’s estate,

Rich, noble, noted, lord of his own fate.

Here Duty beckons, Honour there incites,

And Love entices to its saving rites.

He heeds them not; he joins the madding crowd,

King of the base, the vulgar, and the loud;

Builds his most precious friendships on a bet,

And through the gutter trails his coronet.

Vain fool! inflamed by flattery and conceit,

He marks no pitfalls yawning at his feet;

But, winning, deems the cunning snare his luck,

And losing, pays, to plume him on his pluck;

Accepts each challenge, doubles every stake,

While tipsy plaudits follow in his wake.

But what avails, if Fortune quits his side?

Curse on the jade, he cries, she always lied!

Well, now’s an end! . . . A comrade plucks his gown:

An end as yet, man! cut the timber down.

The luck will turn; you lost for want of skill;

Come, play again-you’ll win. . . . By G-, I will!

Done soon as said. The swift sure axe resounds

Through the green stretch of his ancestral grounds.

The soaring elm, whose topmost boughs defied

The scaling valour of his boyish pride;

The umbrageous beech, beneath whose courtly shade

The loves that issued in his life were made;

The lordly oak, young when his line was young,

To which with pride inherited had clung

His sires and they from whom his sires were sprung;

Behold them now, around the naked hall,

One after one in fell succession fall.

Lo, the wide woods which centuries had seen

By frosts unmoved, mid thunder-fugues serene,

By thousand suns, by tens of thousand showers,

Fostered and fed, one greedy day devours.

And all in vain! Lured by the severed spoil,

The foul fierce harpies fasten on the soil.

`My lands on luck.’ We take you. Clear the course;

Twenty to one upon Lucullus’ horse!

One minute more, and poor Lucullus flies,

The beggared heir of all the centuries.

Then scoffed, and scourged, and stripped of all his wealth,

His last friends leave him-energy and health.

Anxiety and fierce Excitement’s flame

Have scorched his blood and shrivelled up his frame.

`Plum to a pony!’ hear the cripple call;

`Ere six months pass, the grave will end it all.’

Lucky at last, he wins his bootless bet,

And dies of drink, debauchery, and debt.

Gone are the times indeed when savage Might

Usurped the throne and claimed the wage of Right.

No longer now the tiller of the soil

Sees his fair fields the lusty robber’s spoil;

No timid burgher now grows rich by stealth,

Lest some rude noble swoop upon his wealth;

The quiet citizen no longer fears

A raid upon his money or his ears,

That local turmoil or imperial strife

Will wreck his home or leave him bare for life.

But say, is Force the only fearful foe,

Or the keen Sword worst source of human woe?

Wielding base weapons Violence disdained,

Cunning prevails where once Compulsion reigned.

The tyrant’s lance, Oppression’s piercing shaft,

Torment no more, but abdicate to Craft.

Could feudal despot swooping on his prey,

Could bandit burning for the unequal fray,

Could fire, sword, famine, spread more wreck abroad,

Than marks the path of Greed allied with Fraud;

Or waits on life, where no rude signs portend

When the dread bolt of Ruin will descend?

See the poor father, who for years has toiled,

At one fell stroke of all his store despoiled.

His was the pious wish, by daily care

And safe degrees to make his hearth more fair;

His the ambition-far too meek to roam-

To swell the simple luxuries of home;

By loving thrift to deck his comely spouse

With some poor gem, the summit of her vows;

To instruct his boys in every generous art

Which trains the man to act a shining part;

By culture’s aid to see his daughters armed

With each fair grace that in their mother charmed;

Year after year, as strength and vigour waned,

To find his fondest forecasts all attained;

And then, since faithful to the final stage,

Doff the hard harness from the back of age.

But watchful Greed with jealous eye beheld

Day after day his little earnings swelled;

Studied the tender workings of his mind,

Marked the fond aims to which his heart inclined;

With specious lips his trusting senses stole,

And with false visions fired his prudent soul.

Poor wretch! but yesterday in modest state

He lived, secure from every bolt of Fate.

To-day, he wanders feverish and depressed,

As though whole Andes weighed upon his breast.

To-morrow, back unto his home he crawls,

A beggared man, and at the threshold falls.

Now will no more his trustful wife behold

The gladsome face returning as of old,

And read in sparkling eye and smiling cheek

The day’s good tidings e’en before he speak;

Never again in hastening footsteps guess

Some pretty love-gift, token of success.

Their blooming boys, for whom parental hope

So oft had cast the fairest horoscope,

And seen with fond anticipating eyes

Each proud successive civic honour rise,

Torn from their noble studies, have to crave

From base pursuits the pittance of a slave,

Pour the soul’s wine into the body’s sieve,

And grand life lose in mean attempts to live.

Perchance, at home their humble wants denied,

Gaunt Hunger drives them from their mother’s side;

Leaves her to weep alone o’er what hath been,

And places ocean, pitiless, between.

The tender girls, their father’s pride and joy,

Whose dreams a fiend had scrupled to destroy;

From childhood’s earliest days whose only care

Was to be gracious, virtuous, and fair,

And who from Heaven could nothing else implore

Save to be all their mother was before;

Who pictured as their perfect scheme of life

A clinging daughter and a helpful wife,-

At one rude flash behold the world enlarge,

And stand, pale victims, trembling on the marge.

Little, alas, now boots it where they roam,

Since they must leave the tranquil shores of home.

Whether, poor slaves, they crawl with aching feet

Hour after hour from dreary street to street,

Or, as in mockery of home, alas!

Beneath the stranger’s icy portal pass,

And thankless task and miserable wage

Their exiled cheerless energies engage,

Their youth, their life, is blasted at the core,

And Hope’s sweet sap will mount their veins no more.

Should every door their humble prayers repel,

Scorning to buy what Hunger kneels to sell,

And they, half thankful that the strangers spurn,

To their own roof be driven to return,

How strange the scene that meets their wearied gaze!

How changed the hearth, the home, of other days!

Contracting Care usurps the mother’s face,

Whose smiles of old spread sunshine through the place.

Alone she weeps; but should she chance to hear

Her husband’s steps, she hides the furtive tear;

Follows his movements with an anxious dread,

Studies his brow, and scans his restless tread;

Assails his woe with every female wile,

Prattles of hope, and simulates a smile.

He, broken man, wrapt in perpetual gloom,

Wanders anon from vacant room to room;

Then, creeping back, the image of despair,

With a deep sigh he sinks into his chair.

He seldom speaks; and when his voice is heard,

Peevish its tone, and querulous his word;

And vain laments and childish tears attest

The lamp of life is dying in his breast.

Perhaps his death some timely pittance frees,

Secured by prudence in their days of ease;

And, O the pity! posthumous relief

Stanches love’s wounds, and blunts the edge of grief.

Unless, indeed-for this too hath been known-

All-grasping Greed hath made that mite its own,

Filched from the widow her last hopes of bread,

And whom it ruined living, plunders dead!

These are thy triumphs, Gold! thy trophies these,

To nurture fraud, and rob the world of ease,

Faith to befool, young genius to seduce,

And blight at once its beauty and its use.

Thine is the bait, as loveless hearths avouch,

Which drags fresh victims to the venal couch;

Thine the foul traps wherewith our ways are rife,

That lure them first, then close upon their life;

Thine, thine the springes, set in regions fair,

Whose unseen nooses strangle whom they snare;

The cynic glory thine to lie in wait

To make men little who had else been great,

Frustrate our plenty, aggravate our dearth,

And keep eternal feud ‘twixt Heaven and Earth!

Lo, where huge London, huger day by day,

O’er six fair counties spreads its hideous sway,

A tract there lies by Fortune’s favours blest,

And at Fame’s font yclept the happy West.

There, as by wizard touch, for miles on miles,

Rise squares, streets, crescents of palatial piles.

In the brave days when England’s trusty voice

Made grappling rivals tremble or rejoice;

When, foremost shield of Weakness or of Right,

She scorned to warn unless resolved to smite;

When, few but firm, her stalwart children bore

The terror of her Flag from shore to shore,

Purged Christ’s dear tomb from sacrilege and shame,

And made the Moslem quake at Richard’s name;

Taught the vain Gaul, though gallant, still to kneel,

And Spain’s proud sons the weight of northern steel;-

Then were her best in no such splendour nursed

As now awaits her basest and her worst.

No kingly Harry glittering with renown,

No Edward radiant in a peaceful crown,

Was housed as now, at turn of Fortune’s wrist,

Some lucky navvy turned capitalist,

Some convict’s bastard who a-sudden shines

In the bright splendour of Australian mines,

Or subtle Greek, who, skilled in Eastern ways,

Exposes all Golconda to our gaze.

These, as to Pomp’s pretentious peaks they rush,

Heed not the crowds their sordid conquests crush:

Secure in glaring opulence, they scan

With placid eyes the miseries of man;

Fat units, watch the leanness of the whole,

And gag remonstrance with a paltry dole:

Mid harrowing want, with conscience unafraid,

Die on the golden dirt-heaps they have made.

Here Plenty gorges gifts from every zone,

There thankful Hunger gnaws its meagre bone;

Profusion here melts more than pearls in wine,

There craves gaunt Penury some shucks from swine;

And whilst rich rogues quaff deep round roaring fires,

At Dives’ portal Lazarus expires!

Betwixt these fierce extremes of wealth and woe,

A crowd of strugglers hustles to and fro,

Whose one sole aim and only hope in life

Are just to wrench subsistence from the strife.

To what base shifts these hideous straits compel

The straining wretches, let our records tell.

Victims of greedy Competition’s craft,

We drain cheap poison in each sparkling draught,

Purchase a lie in every vaunted ware,

And swallow filth in the most frugal fare.

Building a refuge for our age, we find

The crumbling mortar lets in wet and wind;

Face the rude waves, by science freed from awe,

To sink, poor dupes, on life-belts made of straw!

Nor this the worst! When ripened Shame would hide

Fruits of that hour when Passion conquered Pride,

There are not wanting in this Christian land

The breast remorseless and the Thuggish hand,

To advertise the dens where Death is sold,

And quench the breath of baby-life for gold!

Nor man alone, case-hardened man, surveys

These shocking contrasts with a careless gaze.

Fair melting woman of the tender breast

Here finds no room for pity as her guest.

Unsexed, she strains to Ostentation’s goal,

While Splendour’s dreams demoralise her soul;

Drains, like a goddess, hecatombs of lives,

Nor heeds who lags, provided she arrives.

See Claribel, by every gift designed

Mid anguish keen to be an angel kind,

Once plunged in rival factions’ golden fight,

Turned to a demon in her own despite.

Behold, to-morrow in the Royal smile

Will bask the birth and wealth of all the Isle.

She, long abroad, received the summons late.

What’s to be done? Nor time nor tide will wait.

She turns her wardrobe over, racks her brain;

Nothing will do. She wants a dress and train.

Drive to the modiste’s. Not a finger free.

There’s only Clara. Clara let it be.

But Clara’s sick and sorry. Give her gold;

Her aches will cease, her sorrows be consoled.

It must be done. Sure Lilian there will glow

In gorgeous newness decked from top to toe;

Shall it be said that Claribel did less?

To-morrow, then, in time the train and dress.

So Clara drags her weary limbs from bed,

O’er the brave finery hangs her throbbing head;

Still as her senses swim sews on and on,

Till day dies out and twilight pale is gone.

Then, by the taper’s soft and silent light,

Like a pale flower that opens most by night,

Her pace she quickens, and the needle moves

Subtler and swifter through the gauzy grooves;

But as the dawn on guttering sockets gains,

Her tired lids drop, and sleep arrests her pains.

But sleep how short! She feels her shoulder clutched:

`Clara, awake! the train’s not even touched!

Day strides apace. See, there’s the morning sun,

And ere again he sinks, ‘t must all be done.’

Again, again, the shooting thread she plies,

In silent agony of smothered sighs.

She seems to breathe her breath into the gown,

To give it life the while she lays hers down.

Fast as the task advances set by pride,

So fast within her ebbs the vital tide.

The daylight goes, and softly comes the moon’s,

And then poor Clara over the last stitch swoons.

Meanwhile, the panting Claribel awaits

The precious gown within her golden gates.

It comes-it comes. Now who shall shine her down?

Not Lilian, surely? No, not the entire Town.

She not for worlds had lost this courtly chance;

And Clara dies that Claribel may dance!

If private worth, thus languishing, expires,

Will public Virtue keep alive her fires?

The slaves of wealth, in Britain as in Rome,

Bring to the Forum vices formed at home.

First the community, and then the State,

Falls to their fangs, which naught can satiate.

Not born nor bred to rule, of culture void,

And by no wave of young ambition buoyed,

Anxious on heights conspicuous to flaunt

Nought but the tawdry trophies they can vaunt,

They woo the grasping crowd with golden guile,

And spread Corruption’s canker through the Isle.

You want a seat? Then boldly sate your itch.

Be very radical, and very rich.

Sell your opinions first to please the pure,

Then buy the sordid, and your triumph’s sure.

Do all, in brief, that honest men abhor,

And England hails another Senator.

See the vain Tribune who, in lust of power,

Bows to the base exactions of the hour,

And, fooled by sycophants, stands forth at last

A devotee turned sworn iconoclast!

Behind him sit dense rows of golden mutes,

Deaf to whate’er demonstrates or refutes,

Ready to vote, rescind, obey in all

The whip demands, as hounds the huntsman’s call.

They neither know nor reck what helpful deeds

In this grave hour their perilled Country needs.

They want to see their daughters nobly wed,

Their wives at Court, their own names trumpeted,

Their private Bills advanced another stage,

Their schemes of plunder foisted on the age.

Leave them but these, the gamblers come to call,

Nor heed an Empire nodding to its fall!

When Power is built on props like these, how vain

The hope that Law the giddy will restrain!

Spoilt by twin sops, servility and gold,

The headstrong crowd is then but ill controlled.

In vain they now would sway who lately served,

And Riot cows Authority unnerved.

Better that such base compromise should end,

And the dread bolt of Anarchy descend!

Goths of the gutter, Vandals of the slum,

Thieves and Reformers, come! Barbarians, come!

Before your might let rails and rules be hurled,

And sweep Civilisation from the world!

Nor now, alas, do Commoners alone

To private ends the public weal postpone.

Those too, whom worth ancestral plants on seats

High above where all vulgar Clamour beats,

With paltry fear to their clipped ermine cling,

And shrink from right, lest right should ruin bring.

The Peers stand firm; the Commons disagree.

The Peers be-well, it now is close on three.

By five, a world of reasons will be found.

Throw Jonas over, or the ship’s aground.

You know the fury of the hand that steers;

And what were Britain with no House of Peers?

Would Primogeniture its fall survive,

Or even Property be kept alive?

Let Herbert fume, or frantic Cecil chafe,

Better a deal to choose the side that’s safe;

Bow to the will of Finlen and his hordes,

And still thank Heavën for a House of Lords!

Thus may the British breast exult to think.

That noble names can sell ignoble ink;

That ill-got gains, if deftly spent, unlock

Birth’s choicest circles to the ambitious smock;

That Dives foul mounts fine Aristo’s stairs,

If but Aristo Dives’ plunder shares;

And half Debrett urbanely flocks to White’s,

To back the boor who saves them from the kites.

His son succeeds him. `Make the son a Peer.

Why not? His income’s eighty thousand clear.

New blood is wanted. Here’s the very stuff.

Besides, he wields the county vote.’ Enough.

But hold! there’s Cato. `Cato! are you sane?

Why, Cato’s means but one small hearth sustain.

Ennoble Cato, you’ll have Peers for life,

Or else forbid the man to take a wife.

He can’t maintain the necessary state,

And would you have a poor name legislate?

No, Dives’ son’s the very man we need.

What says the Crown?’ The Crown! Of course, Agreed.

And the young fool, enriched by parent knaves,

From Ruin’s jaws our Constitution saves!

Is there no path of honour for the great,

No sound and clean salvation for the State?

Must we for ever fly to shifts like this,

And trust to Gold to save us from the abyss?

Must honours old by new-got wealth be vamped,

And Valour’s stock by plutocrats be swamped?

Back to your lands, base sons of splendid sires!

From spendthrift squares back to your native shires!

Back, back from Baden, and leave Homburg’s shades

To dazzling Jews and mercenary jades.

Leave London’s round of vulgar joys to those

Who seek in such from base pursuits repose.

Cease to contend with upstart Wealth’s parade,

To wring your lands to vie with tricks of trade;

And, proudly spurning Glitter’s transient lies,

At least be honest, if you can’t be wise!

Worship your household gods, and spend at home

The solid earnings of the generous loam.

Delve, fence, and drain; the dripping waste reclaim;

With spreading woodlands multiply your fame.

Yours let it be to screen the reverent hind,

Who loves your presence, ‘gainst the frost and wind;

Scorning to count the profit, raise his lot;

Lure the shy Graces to his lowly cot;

Be, one and all, acknowledged, far and wide,

Patriarchs and patterns of the country side.

And whether demagogues shall rise or fall,

A Cleon mount, or Boänerges bawl,

True to yourselves and native duty, thus

Save this poor England by being virtuous!

And you, Sir, hope of this once famous isle,

Round whom its halo plays, its favours smile,

Hark to the Muse, which, poised on Candour’s wings,

Flouts the base crowd, but scorns to flatter kings.

Hark, while she tells you, nor her counsel spurn,

From giddy Pleasure’s gilded toys to turn;

That not from minions opulent or coarse

Do Princes gain their lustre and their force;

That Reverence anchors not in deep carouse,

And that a Crown fits only kingly brows!

Fired by each bright example, shun the shade,

Where Scandal best can ply her noxious trade.

Learn from your pious Father how to share

With hands, too lonely now, a Kingdom’s care.

Be by your fair loved Consort’s pattern moved,

And like your virtuous Mother, stand approved;

Do for this England all the Sceptre can,

And be at least a stainless gentleman.

Be this too much, you well may live to find

That firmest Thrones can fail the weak and blind,

And, though no Samson, sharing half his fate,

Pull down the pillars of a mighty State!

Whilst our domestic fortunes thus obey

All-searching Gold’s demoralising sway,

We hug the limits of our puny shore,

And Glory knows our once great name no more.

First are we still in every bloodless fray,

Where piles of gold adventurous prows repay;

But when flushed Honour sets the world on fire,

We furl our sails and to our coasts retire;

And, basely calm whilst outraged nations bleed,

Invent new doctrines to excuse our greed.

When gallant Denmark, now the spoiler’s prey,

Flashed her bright blade, and faced the unequal fray,

And, all abandoned both by men and gods,

Fell, faint with wounds, before accursèd odds,-

Where, where was England’s vindicating sword,

Her promised arm, to stay the invading horde;

Bid the rude German drop his half-clutched spoil,

And scare the robber from ancestral soil?

The fair young Dane, beloved by every Grace,

And all the Virtues shining in her face,

Who, more an angel than a princess deemed,

Withal was even sweeter than she seemed,

With noisy throats we summoned o’er the foam,

And with cheap cheers escorted to her home.

But when with streaming eye and throbbing breast

She, pious child, her loving fears confessed,

And, leagued with Honour’s voice and Valour’s ire,

Prayed us to save her country and her sire,

We turned away, and opulently cold,

Put back our swords of steel in sheaths of gold!

And yet what sandy base doth Gold afford,

Though crowned by Law, and fenced round by the Sword,

Learn from that Empire which, a scorn for aye,

Grew in a night and perished in a day!

Helped by a magic name and doubtful hour,

See the Adventurer scale the steeps of Power.

Upon him groups of desperate gamesters wait,

To snatch their profit from a sinking State.

Folly, and Fate which Folly still attends,

Conspire to shape and expedite their ends.

The Hour, the Man are here! No pulse? No breath?

Wake, Freedom, wake! In vain! She sleeps like Death.

The impious hands, emboldened by her swoon,

Choke in the night, and slay her in the noon!

Then, when vain crowds with dilatory glaive

Rush to avenge the life they would not save,

The prompt conspirators with lavish hand

Fling their last pieces to a pampered band,

Bribe cut-throat blades Vengeance’ choked ways to hold,

And bar the avenues of rage with gold!

Then mark how soon, amid triumphant hymns,

The Imperial purple girds the blood-stained limbs.

The perjured hands a golden sceptre gain,

A crown of gold screens the seared brow of Cain,

And golden eagles, erst of simpler ore,

Assert the Caesar, and his rod restore.

See round his throne Pomp’s servile tributes swell,

Not Nero knew, e’er Rome to ruin fell,

Far from his feet the lust of glitter spread,

And the vain herd on Splendour’s follies fed!

Nor they alone, the shallow, base, and gay,

Bend to this Idol with the feet of clay:

Statesmen and soldiers kneel with flattering suit,

Kings are his guests, e’en queens his cheeks salute;

Senates extol him, supple priests caress,

And even thou, O Pius, stoop’st to bless!

And the World’s verdict, ever blind as base,

Welcomes the `Second Saviour’ of the race!

And yet how weak this Empire girt with gold

Did prove to save when Battle’s torrents rolled,

Have we not seen in ruin, rout, and shame,

Burnt deep in Gaul’s for ever broken fame?

What then availed her courts of pomp and pride,

What her bright camps with glittering shows allied?

What, in that hour, the luxury which passed

To soldiers’ lips the sybarite repast?

Did all her gold suffice, when steel withstood

Her stride, to make her rash, vain challenge good?

Behold her Chief, in comfort longwhile slung,

By War’s rough couch and random fare unstrung

His vaunted Leaders, who to Power had mown

Their path with swords that propped a venal Throne,

Brandishing rival blades, his brain confound,

While still, but sure, the solid foe press round.

See her soft sons, whom arms enervate lead,

Spurn the long marches which to victory speed,

And, fondly deeming Science served by Wealth

Will snatch the fight at distance and by stealth,

Smitten with fear at Valour’s downright face,

And taught swift limbs in Flight’s ignoble chase!

See one, see all, before the Victor fleet,

Then lay their swords, submissive, at his feet!

O hapless France! e’en then insurgent ire

Had your soiled scutcheon lifted from the mire,

Placed the bright helm on Honour’s front once more,

And laurels reaped more lasting than of yore,

Had not rich ease your manhood’s marrow stole,

And gold emollient softened all your soul.

O, what a sight-a sight these eyes beheld-

Her fair green woods by the invader felled;

Her fields and vineyards by the Teuton trod,

Those she once smote encamped upon her sod;

Her homes, in dread, abandoned to the foe,

Or saved from rapine by obsequience low;

Her cities ransomed, provinces o’erawed,

Her iron strongholds wrenched by force or fraud;

Her once proud Paris grovelling in the dust,

And-crowning irony, if lesson just-

The grasping victor, loth to quit his hold,

Coaxed slowly homewards o’er a bridge of gold!

Is there no warning, England, here, for thee?

Or are Heaven’s laws balked by a strip of sea?

Are thy foundations, Albion, so approved,

Thou canst behold such downfall all unmoved?

Have we not marked how this Briarean Gold

Doth all our life and energies enfold?

And as our practice, so our doctrines too-

We shape new ethics for our vices new;

Our sires forswear, our splendid Past defame,

And in high places glory in our shame!

Hear our loud-tinkling Tribunes all declare

Once lavish England hath no blood to spare,

No gold to spend; within her watery wall

She needs to roll and wallow in it all.

Doth towering Might some poor faint Cause oppress,

They bid her turn, impartial, from distress;

Indulge her tears, but hide her ire from sight,

Lest a like doom her angry front invite.

And when this craven caution fails to save

Her peaceful fortunes from the braggart glaive,

They bid her still be moral and be meek,

Hug tight her gold, and turn the other cheek.

Her very sons, sprung from her mighty loins,

We aliens make, to save some paltry coins;

With our own hands destroy our Empire old,

And stutter, `All is lost, except our gold!’

With languid limbs, by comfortable fire,

We see our glories, one by one, expire;

A Nelson’s flag, a Churchill’s flashing blade,

Debased to menials of rapacious Trade;

Lost by a Cardwell what a Wellesley won,

And by a Gladstone Chatham’s world undone!

Pale, gibbering spectres fumbling at the helm,

Whilst dark winds howl, and billowy seas o’erwhelm.

Yet deem you, England, that you thus will save,

Even your wealth from rapine or the grave?

Will your one chain of safety always hold,

Or `silver streak’ for ever guard your gold?

If through long slumbrous years the ignoble rust

Of selfish ease your erst bright steel encrust,

When Storm impends, you vainly will implore

The Gods of Ocean to protect your shore.

Bribed by the foe, behold Britannia stand

At Freedom’s portals with a traitress hand,

Help the Barbarian to its sacred hold,

Then, like Tarpeia, sink oppressed with Gold!

Perish the thought! O, rather let me see

Conspiring myriads bristling on the sea,

Our tranquil coasts bewildered by alarms,

And Britain, singly, face a World in arms!

What if a treacherous Heaven befriend our foes?

Let us go down in glory, as we rose!

And if that doom-the best that could betide-

Be to our Fame by envious Fate denied,

Then come, primeval clouds and seasons frore,

And wrap in gloom our luckless land once more!

Come, every wind of Heaven that rudely blows,

Plunge back our Isle in never-ending snows!

Rage, Eurus, rage! fierce Boreas, descend!

With glacial mists lost Albion befriend!

E’en of its name be every trace destroyed,

And Dark sit brooding o’er the formless Void!