 | Poems by John Godfrey Saxe. Complete in one volume : thirty-fifth edition |  |
113
EL DORADO.
I.
Hurrah for the land where the moor and the mountainAre sparkling with treasures no language hath told,
Where the wave of the river and spray of the fountain
Are bright with the glitter of genuine gold!
Who cares for the pleasures and duties of home,
And all the refinements that grow in its bowers?
To the happy Dorado away we will roam,—
'T will be time to ‘refine’ when the metal is ours!
II.
Hurrah for the country where Mercury and MammonAre the rulers enthroned in the Capitol-seat;
Where Order is chaos, and Justice is gammon,
And yet there 's no Bacon to read or to eat!
Let Famine stalk gaunt and ungainly around,
So thin that his features you scarce can behold,—
Who 'd live upon bread at an ounce for a pound?
Or exchange for potatoes his carats of gold?
III.
Hurrah for the country where Ceres and HymenAre driven abashed from the bountiful soil,
And Music 's unheard, save the musical chiming
Of pickaxe and pan in the clatter of toil.
114
Or would seek for a single philosopher's stone,
When out of the heaps of auriferous ore
He can fill up his pockets with ‘rocks’ of his own?
IV.
Hurrah for the country where Plutus is chief,And where, for a wonder especially odd,
His worshippers freely avow their belief,
And are never ashamed to acknowledge their god!
Where the currency 's ruled by a natural law,
And Biddles and Barings are voted no thanks,—
Where, in spite of the heavy, perpetual draw,
There 's always abundance of gold in the Banks!
V.
If a brother, seduced by our precious estate,And mad with the frenzy that lucre inspires,
Should hit us, some day, on the back of the pate,
With a heartier thump than affection requires,
And our bodies be hid in the glittering dust,—
What matters the incident? why should we care?
To die very rich is the national lust,
To be ‘buried in gold’ is the popular prayer!
VI.
Then away with all doubting and fanciful ills,Away with impressions that duty would print,
The Pactolian drops that affection distils
Can never be coined into drops of the mint!
115
Are sparkling with treasures no tongue can unfold,
Where the wave of the river and spray of the fountain
Are bright with the glitter of genuine gold!
Delve in the dirt to gather golden store.
Let others, patient of the menial toil
And daily suffering, seek the precious spoil;
While most shall struggle through the weary years
With naught of Midas save his ample ears!
No hero I, in such a cause to brave
Hunger and pain, the robber and the grave.
I'll work, instead, exempt from hate and harm,
The fruitful ‘placers’ of my mountain-farm,
Where the bright ploughshare opens richest veins,
From whence shall issue countless golden grains,
Which in the fulness of the year shall come,
In bounteous sheaves, to bless my harvest-home!
But, haply, good may come of mining yet:
'T will help to pay the nation's foreign debt;
'T will further liberal arts; plate rings and pins,
Gild books and coaches, mirrors, signs, and sins;
'T will cheapen pens and pencils, and perchance
May give us honest dealing for Finance,
(That magic art, unknown to darker times
When fraud and falsehood were reputed crimes.
116
How whole estates are made from parts of speech
How lying rags for honest coin shall pass,
And foreign gold be paid in native brass!)
'T will save, perhaps, each deep-indebted State
From all temptation to ‘repudiate,’
Till Time restore our precious credit lost,
And hush the wail of Peter Plymley's ghost!
But lest, O Muse, thy weary friends complain
Thou lov'st o'ermuch the harsh, satiric strain,
Perversely pleased with hateful themes alone,
And ever singing in a scolding tone,
E'en change the note, and dedicate thy lays
For one brief moment to discerning praise.
While drones and dreaming optimists protest,
‘The worst is well, and all is for the best;’
And sturdy croakers chant the counter song,
That ‘man grows worse, and everything is wrong;
Truth, as of old, still loves a golden mean,
And shuns extremes to walk erect between!
The world improves; with slow, unequal pace,
‘The Good Time 's coming’ to our hapless race.
The general tide beneath the refluent surge
Rolls on, resistless, to its destined verge!
Unfriendly hills no longer interpose
As stubborn walls to geographic foes,
Nor envious streams run only to divide
The hearts of brethren ranged on either side.
Promethean Science, with untiring eye
Searching the mysteries of the earth and sky;
And cunning Art, with strong and plastic hand
To work the marvels Science may command;
And broad-winged Commerce, swift to carry o'er
Earth's countless blessings to her farthest shore,—
These, and no German nor Genevan sage,
These are the great reformers of the age!
‘The worst is well, and all is for the best;’
And sturdy croakers chant the counter song,
That ‘man grows worse, and everything is wrong;
Truth, as of old, still loves a golden mean,
And shuns extremes to walk erect between!
The world improves; with slow, unequal pace,
‘The Good Time 's coming’ to our hapless race.
The general tide beneath the refluent surge
Rolls on, resistless, to its destined verge!
Unfriendly hills no longer interpose
As stubborn walls to geographic foes,
Nor envious streams run only to divide
The hearts of brethren ranged on either side.
Promethean Science, with untiring eye
Searching the mysteries of the earth and sky;
117
To work the marvels Science may command;
And broad-winged Commerce, swift to carry o'er
Earth's countless blessings to her farthest shore,—
These, and no German nor Genevan sage,
These are the great reformers of the age!
See Art, exultant in her stately car,
On Nature's Titans wage triumphant war!
While e'en the Lightnings by her wondrous skill
Are tamed for heralds of her sovereign will!
Old Ocean's breast a new invader feels,
And heaves in vain to clog her iron wheels;
In vain the Forests marshal all their force,
And Mountains rise to stay her onward course;
From out her path each bold opposer hurled,
She throws her girdle round a captive world!
I 've kept my promise. Of a prosy songOn Nature's Titans wage triumphant war!
While e'en the Lightnings by her wondrous skill
Are tamed for heralds of her sovereign will!
Old Ocean's breast a new invader feels,
And heaves in vain to clog her iron wheels;
In vain the Forests marshal all their force,
And Mountains rise to stay her onward course;
From out her path each bold opposer hurled,
She throws her girdle round a captive world!
Men want but little, nor that little long;
Yet even dulness may afford relief
On some occasions, if it 's only brief;
As transient cloudlets soothe the aching sight,
Blind with the dazzle of untempered light!
'T is something that my Pegasus, though slow,
Don't stand curvetting when he 's bid to go;
And, clear at least of one egregious fault,
Knows like a Major when and where to halt!
If in his flight he ventured not to soar
Where Helios' son, too rashly, went before,
(A pregnant hint for feeble bards who dare
The awful heights beyond their native air,)
118
But only mercy for his rider's neck,—
Whom, were he lost among the fogs that lie
Between the empyrean and the nether sky,
And headlong hurled to some Bœotian deep,
No pitying nymphs had gathered round to weep!
| Poems by John Godfrey Saxe. Complete in one volume : thirty-fifth edition | |