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Yet still be just. In shape of fraud or force,
Ere Gold appear'd the Passions took their course;
Like whirldwinds swept the flowers of life along,
And crush'd the weak, and undermin'd the strong;
Lord as thou wert, Tibullus, of the strains
That sweetest paint an hapless lover's pains,
Long, long ere execrated Gold from earth
Arose to give each tender trespass birth,
Full many a mistress knew, like thine, the art,
To sport with vows, and practise on the heart.
Let sage Tradition's reverend records tell,
Unbrib'd by gold, what hosts in battle fell,
Unbrib'd by gold,—when acorns were the food,
And man with beast roam'd naked thro' the wood,
Ev'n in those times which raptur'd bards have sung,
When nature triumph'd, and the world was young,
Blest days! whose charms so many lays rehearse,
Blest days, alas! which only bloom in verse—
Ev'n then let Hist'ry tell what follies sped,
Assail'd the hut, and thro' the forest spread;
How daring guilt in proud obtrusion stood,
And dy'd his dreadful robe in brothers blood;
How son and sire, with unrelenting strife,
Ensanguin'd sought each other's kindred life;
How matrons stopt the new-born infants breath,
And bold self-slaughter rush'd on impious death;
How darkling error stain'd the blushing morn,
And life's first roses bore the pointed thorn;
How ages past exhibit all the crimes
That random satire aims at modern times;
How varying modes alone divide the plan
Betwixt the savage and the social man;
How ruder vices now refin'd appear,
Adopting still the fashion of the year;
Conclude we then the vices are the same,
Conclude that Man, not Gold, is still to blame,