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 edgesOf ancient drifts, or prisoned in deep ledges;Hidden within some mountain's rugged breastFrom man's desire and quest—Would thou couldst speak and tell the mysteryThat shrines thy history!

Yet 'tis of little consequence,Today, to know how them wert made, or whenceEarthquake 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 intersticesOf 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 patientlyOffered up everything, O gold, to thee—Home, wife and children, native soil, and allThat once they deemed life's sweetest, at thy call;Fled over burning plains; in deserts fainted;Wearied for months at sea—yet ever paintedThee as the shining Mecca, that to gainInvalidated pain,Cured the sick soul—made nugatory evilOf man or devil.

Alas, and well-a-day! we knowWhat idle dreams were these that fooled men so.On yonder hillside sleep in nameless graves,To which they went untended, the poor slavesOf fruitless toil; the victims of a feverCalled homesickness—no remedy found ever;Or slain by vices that grow rankly whereMen madly do and dare,In alternations of high hope and deep abyssesOf recklessnesses.

Painfully, and by violence,Even as heaven is taken, thou wert dragged whenceNature had hidden thee—whose face is wornWith anxious furrows, and her bosom tornIn the hard strife—and ever yet there lingersUpon these hills work for the effacing fingersOf time, the healer, who makes all things seemA 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 holdThe world in bond to thee, thou yellow gold.Yet do I sadly own thy fascination,And would I gladly show my estimationBy giving house-room to thee, if thou'lt comeAnd cumber up my home;—I'd even promise not to call attentionTo these things that I mention.

"The King can do no wrong," and thouArt King indeed to most of us, I trow.Thou'rt an enchanter, at whose sovereign willAll that there is of progress, learning, skill,Of beauty, culture, grace—and I might evenInclude 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 beOf thy identity.

Ah, solid, weighty, beautiful!How could I first have said that thou wert dull?How could have wondered that men willinglyGave up their homes, and toiled and died for thee?Theirs was the martyrdom in which was plantedA glorious state, by precious memories haunted;Ours is the comfort, ease, the power, and fameOf an exalted name;Theirs was the struggle of a proud ambition—Ours the full fruition.

Thou, yellow nugget, wert the starThat 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 HimWho made the cherubim.My reverent thought, indeed, is not withholden,O nugget golden!