n some mountain's rugged breast
From man's desire and quest--
Would thou could'st speak and tell the mystery
That shrines thy history!

Yet 'tis of little consequence,
To-day, to know how thou wert made, or whence
Earthquake and flood have brought thee: thou art here,
At once the master that men love and fear--
Whom they have sought by many strange devices,
In ancient river-beds; in interstices
Of 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 patiently
Offered up everything, O gold, to thee!--
Home, wife and children, native soil, and all
That once they deemed life's sweetest, at thy call;
Fled over burning plains; in deserts fainted;
Wearied for months at sea--yet ever painted
Thee as the shining Mecca, that to gain
Invalidated pain,
Cured the sick soul--made nugatory evil
Of man or devil.

Alas, and well-a-day! we know
What idle dreams were these that fooled men so.
On yonder hillside sleep in nameless graves,
To which they went untended, the poor slaves
Of fruitless toil; the victims of a fever
Called home-sickness--no remedy found ever;
Or slain by vices that grow rankly where
Men madly do and dare,
In alternations of high hope and deep abysses
Of recklessnesses.

Painfully, and by violence:
Even as heaven is taken, thou wert dragged whence
Nature had hidden thee--whose face is worn
With anxious furrows, and her bosom torn
In the hard strife--and ever yet there lingers
Upon these hills work for the "effacing fingers"
Of time, the healer, who makes all things seem
A half forgotten dream;
Who smooths deep furrows and lone graves together,
By touch of wind and weather.

Thou heavy, lustreless, dull clod!
Digged from the earth like a base common sod;
I wonder at thee, and thy power to hold
The world in bond to thee, thou yellow gold!
Yet do I sadly own thy fascination,
And would I gladly show my estimation
By giving house-room to thee, if thou'lt come
And cumber up my home;--
I'd even promise not to call attention
To these things that I mention!

"The King can do no wrong," and thou
Art King indeed to most of us, I trow.
Thou'rt an enchanter, at whose so