gold another power
To make him slay, as Envy at the hour,
When Thou dost set the ever-during mark
On him a Wanderer, where all earth was dark.
And how uncertain is the hold on life,
In those sad lands of gold and constant strife.
Fiends strike by day; by night they ever lurk,
By wood or cottage, swift to do Death's work;
Till even when none are near to deal the blow,
Imagination sees a hidden foe,
Behind each tree, and by the little cot,
Till gloomy Apprehension shades each spot.

Lo! in yon bower of honeysuckle where
A thousand bees intone the summer air;
And humming birds, a fairy birth of springs,
Hover to suck the sweet on quivering wings;
There, at the morning's sweet and balmy prime,
A clasping couple blame the swift-wing'd Time.
Each morn, each eve, they seek this lonely bower,
And deeply bless its fair and fragrant flower,
Which shadows o'er so much of wildest bliss--
The burning glance--the long and honied kiss--
The broken sigh--the murmured, tender word,
Whose thrilling tone the inmost heart hath stirred--
The matchless joy which makes us hold as nought,
All pangs that Fate may bring, or ever brought.
The lover hears that far amid the West,
Gold gleams within each river's crystal breast--
That, wide and far, the gorgeous vision smiles,
And laps the spirit in delicious wiles.
He quits--he flies--he will behold the strand,
Where Wealth lies gasping for his tardy hand.
He will return--an edifice shall rise
In stately grandeur to the curving skies;
In their own land, his lovely bride and he,
Will move a lord and lady of degree.
She springs--she flings her fair, etherial form
Upon his breast, which once, with love, was warm--
But now curst love of gold has surely chilled,
The heart that once her love so wildly thrilled.
Her long, fair locks, distracted, stream below,
Her gushing tears like wintry torrents, flow:
Her Herbert steels his heart against their power,--
The ship that wafts him sails, ere morning's hour.

At length he hails the longed for, distant shore;
The perils of the deep, at least, are o'er,
No fell disease has struck, with vengeful power,
His form to earth, to this protracted hour.
He sees the land--before his gaze unfold
The mighty, gorgeous realms of guilt and gold.
How swells his bursting heart with evil pride!
Cursed pride, for which so many souls have died.
Accursed pride of Lucre--loathsome Dame
Of every sin on earth that hath a name.
In fancy now he sees his palace soa