 | The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe |  |
THE MONEY-KING.
A POEM DELIVERED BEFORE THE PHI BETA KAPPA SOCIETY OF YALE COLLEGE, 1854.
As landsmen, sitting in luxurious ease,
Talk of the dangers of the stormy seas;
As fireside travelers, with portentous mien,
Tell tales of countries they have never seen;
As parlor-soldiers, graced with fancy-scars,
Rehearse their bravery in imagined wars;
As arrant dunces have been known to sit
In grave discourse of wisdom and of wit;
As paupers, gathered in congenial flocks,
Babble of banks, insurances, and stocks;
As each is oftenest eloquent of what
He hates or covets, but possesses not;—
As cowards talk of pluck; misers, of waste;
Scoundrels, of honor; country clowns, of taste;—
I sing of Money!—no ignoble theme,
But loftier far then poetasters dream,
Whose fancies, soaring to their native moon,
Rise like a bubble or a gay balloon,
Whose orb aspiring takes a heavenward flight,
Just in proportion as it 's thin and light!
Talk of the dangers of the stormy seas;
As fireside travelers, with portentous mien,
Tell tales of countries they have never seen;
As parlor-soldiers, graced with fancy-scars,
Rehearse their bravery in imagined wars;
As arrant dunces have been known to sit
In grave discourse of wisdom and of wit;
As paupers, gathered in congenial flocks,
Babble of banks, insurances, and stocks;
As each is oftenest eloquent of what
He hates or covets, but possesses not;—
As cowards talk of pluck; misers, of waste;
Scoundrels, of honor; country clowns, of taste;—
I sing of Money!—no ignoble theme,
But loftier far then poetasters dream,
Whose fancies, soaring to their native moon,
Rise like a bubble or a gay balloon,
Whose orb aspiring takes a heavenward flight,
Just in proportion as it 's thin and light!
Kings must have Poets. From the earliest times,
Monarchs have loved celebrity in rhymes;
From good King Robert, who, in Petrarch's days,
Taught to mankind the proper use of bays,
And, singling out the prince of Sonneteers,
Twined wreaths of laurel round his blushing ears;
Down to the Queen, who, to her chosen bard,
In annual token of her kind regard,
Sends not alone the old poetic greens,
But, like a woman and the best of queens,
Adds to the leaves, to keep them fresh and fine,
The wholesome moisture of a pipe of wine!—
So may her minstrel, crowned with royal bays,
Alternate praise her pipe and pipe her praise!
E'en let him chant his smooth, euphonious lays:
A loftier theme my humbler Muse essays;
A mightier monarch be it hers to sing,
And claim her laurel from the Money-King!
Monarchs have loved celebrity in rhymes;
From good King Robert, who, in Petrarch's days,
Taught to mankind the proper use of bays,
And, singling out the prince of Sonneteers,
Twined wreaths of laurel round his blushing ears;
Down to the Queen, who, to her chosen bard,
In annual token of her kind regard,
Sends not alone the old poetic greens,
But, like a woman and the best of queens,
211
The wholesome moisture of a pipe of wine!—
So may her minstrel, crowned with royal bays,
Alternate praise her pipe and pipe her praise!
E'en let him chant his smooth, euphonious lays:
A loftier theme my humbler Muse essays;
A mightier monarch be it hers to sing,
And claim her laurel from the Money-King!
Great was King Alfred; and if history state
His actions truly, good as well as great.
Great was the Norman; he whose martial hordes
Taught law and order to the Saxon lords,
With gentler thoughts their rugged minds imbued,
And raised the nation whom he first subdued.
Great was King Bess!—I see the critic smile,
As though the Muse mistook her proper style;
But to her purpose she will stoutly cling,
The royal maid was “every inch a King!”
Great was Napoleon,—and I would that fate
Might prove his namesake-nephew half as great;
Meanwhile this hint I venture to advance:—
What France admires is good enough for France!
Great princes were they all; but greater far
Than English King, or mighty Russian Czar,
Or Pope of Rome, or haughty Queen of of Spain,
Baron of Germany, or Royal Dane,
Or Gallic Emperor, or Persian Khan,
Or any other merely mortal man,
Is the great monarch that my Muse would sing,
That mighty potentate, the Money-King!
His kingdom vast extends o'er every land,
And nations bow before his high command,
The weakest tremble, and his power obey,
The strongest honor, and confess his sway.
He rules the Rulers!—e'en the tyrant Czar
Asks his permission ere he goes to war;
The Turk, submissive to his royal might,
By his decree has gracious leave to fight;
Whilst e'en Britannia makes her humblest bow
Before her Barings, not her Barons now,
Or on the Rothschild suppliantly calls
(Her affluent “uncle” with the golden balls),
Begs of the Jew that he will kindly spare
Enough to put her trident in repair,
And pawns her diamonds, while she humbly craves
The Money-King's consent to “rule the waves!”
His actions truly, good as well as great.
Great was the Norman; he whose martial hordes
Taught law and order to the Saxon lords,
With gentler thoughts their rugged minds imbued,
And raised the nation whom he first subdued.
Great was King Bess!—I see the critic smile,
As though the Muse mistook her proper style;
But to her purpose she will stoutly cling,
The royal maid was “every inch a King!”
Great was Napoleon,—and I would that fate
Might prove his namesake-nephew half as great;
Meanwhile this hint I venture to advance:—
What France admires is good enough for France!
Great princes were they all; but greater far
Than English King, or mighty Russian Czar,
Or Pope of Rome, or haughty Queen of of Spain,
Baron of Germany, or Royal Dane,
Or Gallic Emperor, or Persian Khan,
Or any other merely mortal man,
Is the great monarch that my Muse would sing,
That mighty potentate, the Money-King!
His kingdom vast extends o'er every land,
And nations bow before his high command,
The weakest tremble, and his power obey,
The strongest honor, and confess his sway.
He rules the Rulers!—e'en the tyrant Czar
Asks his permission ere he goes to war;
The Turk, submissive to his royal might,
By his decree has gracious leave to fight;
Whilst e'en Britannia makes her humblest bow
Before her Barings, not her Barons now,
Or on the Rothschild suppliantly calls
(Her affluent “uncle” with the golden balls),
Begs of the Jew that he will kindly spare
Enough to put her trident in repair,
And pawns her diamonds, while she humbly craves
The Money-King's consent to “rule the waves!”
He wears no crown upon his royal head,
But many millions in his purse, instead;
He keeps no halls of state; but holds his court
In dingy rooms where greed and thrift resort;
In iron chests his wondrous wealth he hoards;
Banks are his parlors; brokers are his lords,
Bonds, bills, and mortgages, his favorite books,
Gold is his food, and coiners are his cooks;
Ledgers his records; stock reports his news;
Merchants his yeomen, and his bondsmen Jews;
Kings are his subjects, gamblers are his knaves,
Spendthrifts his fools, and misers are his slaves!
The good, the bad, his golden favor prize;
The high, the low, the simple, and the wise,
The young the old, the stately, and the gay,—
All bow obedient to his royal sway!
See where, afar, the bright Pacific shore
Gleams in the sun with sands of shining ore,
His last, great empire rises to the view,
And shames the wealth of India and Peru!
Here, throned within his gorgeous “golden gate,”
He wields his sceptre o'er the rising State;
Surveys his conquest with a joyful eye,
Nor for a greater heaves a single sigh!
Here, quite beyond the classic poet's dream,
Pactolus runs in every winding stream;
The mountain cliffs the glittering ore enfold,
And every reed that rustles whispers, “Gold!”
But many millions in his purse, instead;
He keeps no halls of state; but holds his court
In dingy rooms where greed and thrift resort;
In iron chests his wondrous wealth he hoards;
Banks are his parlors; brokers are his lords,
Bonds, bills, and mortgages, his favorite books,
Gold is his food, and coiners are his cooks;
Ledgers his records; stock reports his news;
Merchants his yeomen, and his bondsmen Jews;
Kings are his subjects, gamblers are his knaves,
Spendthrifts his fools, and misers are his slaves!
The good, the bad, his golden favor prize;
The high, the low, the simple, and the wise,
The young the old, the stately, and the gay,—
All bow obedient to his royal sway!
See where, afar, the bright Pacific shore
212
His last, great empire rises to the view,
And shames the wealth of India and Peru!
Here, throned within his gorgeous “golden gate,”
He wields his sceptre o'er the rising State;
Surveys his conquest with a joyful eye,
Nor for a greater heaves a single sigh!
Here, quite beyond the classic poet's dream,
Pactolus runs in every winding stream;
The mountain cliffs the glittering ore enfold,
And every reed that rustles whispers, “Gold!”
If to his sceptre some dishonor clings,
Why should we marvel?—'t is the fate of kings!
Their power too oft perverted by abuse,
Their manners cruel, or their morals loose;
The best at times have wandered far astray
From simple Virtue's unseductive way;
And few, of all, at once could make pretense
To royal robes and rustic innocence!
Why should we marvel?—'t is the fate of kings!
Their power too oft perverted by abuse,
Their manners cruel, or their morals loose;
The best at times have wandered far astray
From simple Virtue's unseductive way;
And few, of all, at once could make pretense
To royal robes and rustic innocence!
He builds the house where Christian people pray,
And rears a bagnio just across the way;
Pays to the priest his stinted annual fee;
Rewards the lawyer for his venal plea;
Sends an apostle to the heathen's aid;
And cheats the Choctaws, for the good of trade;
Lifts by her heels an Ellsler to renown,
Or, bribing “Jenny,” brings an angel down!
He builds the Theatres and gambling Halls,
Lloyds and Almacks, St. Peter's and St. Paul's;
Sin's gay retreats and Fashion's gilded rooms,
Hotels and Factories, Palaces and Tombs;
Bids Commerce spread her wings to every gale;
Bends to the breeze the pirate's bloody sail;
Helps Science seek new worlds among the stars;
Profanes our own with mercenary wars;
The friend of wrong, the equal friend of right,
Oft may we bless and oft deplore his might,
As buoyant hope or darkening fears prevail,
And good or evil turns the moral scale.
And rears a bagnio just across the way;
Pays to the priest his stinted annual fee;
Rewards the lawyer for his venal plea;
Sends an apostle to the heathen's aid;
And cheats the Choctaws, for the good of trade;
Lifts by her heels an Ellsler to renown,
Or, bribing “Jenny,” brings an angel down!
He builds the Theatres and gambling Halls,
Lloyds and Almacks, St. Peter's and St. Paul's;
Sin's gay retreats and Fashion's gilded rooms,
Hotels and Factories, Palaces and Tombs;
Bids Commerce spread her wings to every gale;
Bends to the breeze the pirate's bloody sail;
Helps Science seek new worlds among the stars;
Profanes our own with mercenary wars;
The friend of wrong, the equal friend of right,
Oft may we bless and oft deplore his might,
As buoyant hope or darkening fears prevail,
And good or evil turns the moral scale.
All fitting honor I would fain accord,
Whene'er he builds a temple to the Lord;
But much I grieve he often spends his pelf,
As it were raised in honor of himself;
Or, what were worse, and more profanely odd,
A place to worship some Egyptian god!
I wish his favorite architects were graced
With sounder judgment, and a Christian taste.
Immortal Wren! what fierce, convulsive shocks
Would jar thy bones within their leaden box,
Couldst thou but look across the briny spray,
And see some churches of the present day!—
The lofty dome of consecrated bricks,
Where all the “orders” in disorder mix,
To form a temple whose incongruous frame
Confounds design and puts the Arts to shame!
Where “styles” discordant on the vision jar,
Where Greek and Roman are again at war,
And, as of old, the unrelenting Goth
Comes down at last and overwhelms them both!
Whene'er he builds a temple to the Lord;
But much I grieve he often spends his pelf,
As it were raised in honor of himself;
Or, what were worse, and more profanely odd,
A place to worship some Egyptian god!
I wish his favorite architects were graced
With sounder judgment, and a Christian taste.
Immortal Wren! what fierce, convulsive shocks
Would jar thy bones within their leaden box,
Couldst thou but look across the briny spray,
And see some churches of the present day!—
The lofty dome of consecrated bricks,
Where all the “orders” in disorder mix,
To form a temple whose incongruous frame
Confounds design and puts the Arts to shame!
Where “styles” discordant on the vision jar,
Where Greek and Roman are again at war,
And, as of old, the unrelenting Goth
Comes down at last and overwhelms them both!
Once on a time I heard a parson say
(Talking of churches in a sprightly way),
That there was more Religion in the walls
Of towering “Trinity,” or grand “St. Paul's.”
Than one could find, upon the strictest search,
In half the saints within the Christian Church!
A layman sitting at the parson's side
To the new dogma thus at once replied:
“If, as you say, Religion has her home
In the mere walls that form the sacred dome,
It seems to me the very plainest case,
To climb the steeple were a growth in grace;
And he to whom the pious strength were given
To reach the highest were the nearest Heaven!”
I thought the answer just; and yet 't is clear
A solemn aspect, grand and yet severe,
Becomes the house of God. 'T is hard to say
Who from the proper mark are most astray,—
They who erect, for holy Christian rites,
A gay Pagoda with its tinsel lights,
Or they who offer to the God of Love
A gorgeous Temple of the pagan Jove!
(Talking of churches in a sprightly way),
That there was more Religion in the walls
Of towering “Trinity,” or grand “St. Paul's.”
Than one could find, upon the strictest search,
In half the saints within the Christian Church!
A layman sitting at the parson's side
213
“If, as you say, Religion has her home
In the mere walls that form the sacred dome,
It seems to me the very plainest case,
To climb the steeple were a growth in grace;
And he to whom the pious strength were given
To reach the highest were the nearest Heaven!”
I thought the answer just; and yet 't is clear
A solemn aspect, grand and yet severe,
Becomes the house of God. 'T is hard to say
Who from the proper mark are most astray,—
They who erect, for holy Christian rites,
A gay Pagoda with its tinsel lights,
Or they who offer to the God of Love
A gorgeous Temple of the pagan Jove!
Immortal Homer and Tassoni sing
What vast results from trivial causes spring;
How naughty Helen by her stolen joy
Brought woe and ruin to unhappy Troy;
How, for a bucket, rash Bologna sold
More blood and tears than twenty such could hold!
Thy power, O Money, shows results as strange
As aught revealed in History's widest range;
Thy smallest coin of shining silver shows
More potent magic than a conjurer knows!
In olden times,—if classic poets say
The simple truth, as poets do to-day,—
When Charon's boat conveyed a spirit o'er
The Lethean water to the Hadean shore,
The fare was just a penny,—not too great,
The moderate, regular, Stygian statute rate.
Now, for a shilling, he will cross the stream,
(His paddles whirling to the force of steam!)
And bring, obedient to some wizard power,
Back to the Earth more spirits in an hour
Than Brooklyn's famous ferry could convey,
Or thine, Hoboken, in the longest day!
Time was when men bereaved of vital breath
Were calm and silent in the realms of Death;
When mortals dead and decently inurned
Were heard no more; no traveler returned,
Who once had crossed the dark Plutonian strand,
To whisper secrets of the spirit-land,—
Save when perchance some sad, unquiet soul
Among the tombs might wander on parole,—
A well-bred ghost, at night's bewitching noon,
Returned to catch some glimpses of the moon,
Wrapt in a mantle of unearthly white
(The only 'rapping of an ancient sprite),
Stalked round in silence till the break of day,
Then from the Earth passed unperceived away.
Now all is changed: the musty maxim fails,
And dead men do repeat the queerest tales!
Alas, that here, as in the books, we see
The travelers clash, the doctors disagree!
Alas, that all, the farther they explore,
For all their search are but confused the more!
Ye great departed!—men of mighty mark,—
Bacon and Newton, Adams, Adam Clarke,
Edwards and Whitefield, Franklin, Robert Hall,
Calhoun, Clay, Channing, Daniel Webster,—all
Ye great quit-tenants of this earthly ball,—
If in your new abodes ye cannot rest,
But must return, O, grant us this request:
Come with a noble and celestial air,
To prove your title to the names ye bear!
Give some clear token of your heavenly birth,
Write as good English as ye wrote on earth!
Show not to all, in ranting prose and verse.
The spirit's progress is from bad to worse;
And, what were once superfluous to advise,
Don't tell, I beg you, such egregious lies;
Or if perchance your agents are to blame,
Don't let them trifle with your honest fame;
Let chairs and tables rest, and “rap” instead,
Ay, “knock” your slippery “Mediums” on the head!
What vast results from trivial causes spring;
How naughty Helen by her stolen joy
Brought woe and ruin to unhappy Troy;
How, for a bucket, rash Bologna sold
More blood and tears than twenty such could hold!
Thy power, O Money, shows results as strange
As aught revealed in History's widest range;
Thy smallest coin of shining silver shows
More potent magic than a conjurer knows!
In olden times,—if classic poets say
The simple truth, as poets do to-day,—
When Charon's boat conveyed a spirit o'er
The Lethean water to the Hadean shore,
The fare was just a penny,—not too great,
The moderate, regular, Stygian statute rate.
Now, for a shilling, he will cross the stream,
(His paddles whirling to the force of steam!)
And bring, obedient to some wizard power,
Back to the Earth more spirits in an hour
Than Brooklyn's famous ferry could convey,
Or thine, Hoboken, in the longest day!
Time was when men bereaved of vital breath
Were calm and silent in the realms of Death;
When mortals dead and decently inurned
Were heard no more; no traveler returned,
Who once had crossed the dark Plutonian strand,
To whisper secrets of the spirit-land,—
Save when perchance some sad, unquiet soul
Among the tombs might wander on parole,—
A well-bred ghost, at night's bewitching noon,
Returned to catch some glimpses of the moon,
Wrapt in a mantle of unearthly white
(The only 'rapping of an ancient sprite),
Stalked round in silence till the break of day,
Then from the Earth passed unperceived away.
Now all is changed: the musty maxim fails,
And dead men do repeat the queerest tales!
Alas, that here, as in the books, we see
The travelers clash, the doctors disagree!
Alas, that all, the farther they explore,
For all their search are but confused the more!
Ye great departed!—men of mighty mark,—
Bacon and Newton, Adams, Adam Clarke,
Edwards and Whitefield, Franklin, Robert Hall,
Calhoun, Clay, Channing, Daniel Webster,—all
Ye great quit-tenants of this earthly ball,—
If in your new abodes ye cannot rest,
But must return, O, grant us this request:
Come with a noble and celestial air,
To prove your title to the names ye bear!
Give some clear token of your heavenly birth,
Write as good English as ye wrote on earth!
Show not to all, in ranting prose and verse.
214
And, what were once superfluous to advise,
Don't tell, I beg you, such egregious lies;
Or if perchance your agents are to blame,
Don't let them trifle with your honest fame;
Let chairs and tables rest, and “rap” instead,
Ay, “knock” your slippery “Mediums” on the head!
What direful woes the hapless man attend,
Who in the means sees life's supremest end;
The wretched miser,—money's sordid slave,—
His only joy to gather and to save.
For this he wakes at morning's early light,
Toils through the day, and ponders in the night;
For this,—to swell his heap of tarnished gold.—
Sweats in the sun, and shivers in the cold,
And suffers more from hunger every day
Than the starved beggar whom he spurns away.
Death comes erewhile to end his worldly strife;
With all his saving he must lose his life!
Perchance the doctor might protract his breath,
And stay the dreadful messenger of death;
But none is there to comfort or advise;
'T would cost a dollar;—so the miser dies.
Who in the means sees life's supremest end;
The wretched miser,—money's sordid slave,—
His only joy to gather and to save.
For this he wakes at morning's early light,
Toils through the day, and ponders in the night;
For this,—to swell his heap of tarnished gold.—
Sweats in the sun, and shivers in the cold,
And suffers more from hunger every day
Than the starved beggar whom he spurns away.
Death comes erewhile to end his worldly strife;
With all his saving he must lose his life!
Perchance the doctor might protract his breath,
And stay the dreadful messenger of death;
But none is there to comfort or advise;
'T would cost a dollar;—so the miser dies.
Sad is the sight when Money's power controls
In wedlock's chains the fate of human souls.
From mine to mint, curst is the coin that parts
In helpless grief two loving human hearts;
Or joins in discord, jealousy, and hate,
A sordid suitor to a loathing mate.
I waive the case, the barren case, of those
Who have no hearts to cherish or to lose;
Whose wedded state is but a bargain made
In due accordance with the laws of trade.
When the prim parson joins their willing hands,
To marry City lots to Western lands,
Or in connubial ecstasy to mix
Cash and “collateral,” ten-per-cents with six,
And in the “patent safe” of Hymen locks
Impassioned dollars with enamoured stocks,
Laugh if you will,—and who can well refrain?—
But waste no tears, nor pangs of pitying pain;
Hearts such as these may play the queerest pranks,
But never break,—except with breaking banks.
In wedlock's chains the fate of human souls.
From mine to mint, curst is the coin that parts
In helpless grief two loving human hearts;
Or joins in discord, jealousy, and hate,
A sordid suitor to a loathing mate.
I waive the case, the barren case, of those
Who have no hearts to cherish or to lose;
Whose wedded state is but a bargain made
In due accordance with the laws of trade.
When the prim parson joins their willing hands,
To marry City lots to Western lands,
Or in connubial ecstasy to mix
Cash and “collateral,” ten-per-cents with six,
And in the “patent safe” of Hymen locks
Impassioned dollars with enamoured stocks,
Laugh if you will,—and who can well refrain?—
But waste no tears, nor pangs of pitying pain;
Hearts such as these may play the queerest pranks,
But never break,—except with breaking banks.
Yet, let me hint, a thousand maxims prove
Plutus may be the truest friend to Love.
“Love in a cottage” cosily may dwell,
But much prefers to have it furnished well.
A parlor ample, and a kitchen snug,
A handsome carpet, an embroidered rug,
A well-stored pantry, and a tidy maid,
A blazing hearth, a cooling window-shade,
Though merely mortal, money-purchased things,
Have wondrous power to clip Love's errant wings!
“Love in a cottage” is n't just the same
When wind and water strive to quench his flame;
Too oft it breeds the sharpest discontent,
That puzzling question, “How to pay the rent;”
A smoky chimney may alone suffice
To dim the radiance of the fondest eyes;
A northern blast, beyond the slightest doubt,
May fairly blow the torch of Hymen out;
And I have heard a worthy patron hold
(As one who knew the truth of what she told),
Love once was drowned, though reckoned waterproof,
By the mere dripping of a leaky roof!
Full many a wise philosopher has tried
Mankind in fitting orders to divide;
And by their forms, their fashions, and their face,
To group, assort, and classify the race.
One would distinguish people by their books;
Another, quaintly, solely by their cooks;
And one, who graced the philosophic bench,
Found these three classes,—“women, men, and French!”
The best remains, of all that I have known,
A broad distinction, brilliant, and my own:
Of all mankind, I classify the lot,
Those who have Money, and those who have not!
Plutus may be the truest friend to Love.
“Love in a cottage” cosily may dwell,
But much prefers to have it furnished well.
A parlor ample, and a kitchen snug,
A handsome carpet, an embroidered rug,
A well-stored pantry, and a tidy maid,
A blazing hearth, a cooling window-shade,
Though merely mortal, money-purchased things,
Have wondrous power to clip Love's errant wings!
“Love in a cottage” is n't just the same
When wind and water strive to quench his flame;
Too oft it breeds the sharpest discontent,
That puzzling question, “How to pay the rent;”
A smoky chimney may alone suffice
To dim the radiance of the fondest eyes;
A northern blast, beyond the slightest doubt,
May fairly blow the torch of Hymen out;
And I have heard a worthy patron hold
(As one who knew the truth of what she told),
Love once was drowned, though reckoned waterproof,
By the mere dripping of a leaky roof!
215
Mankind in fitting orders to divide;
And by their forms, their fashions, and their face,
To group, assort, and classify the race.
One would distinguish people by their books;
Another, quaintly, solely by their cooks;
And one, who graced the philosophic bench,
Found these three classes,—“women, men, and French!”
The best remains, of all that I have known,
A broad distinction, brilliant, and my own:
Of all mankind, I classify the lot,
Those who have Money, and those who have not!
Think'st thou the line a poet's fiction?—then
Go look abroad upon the ways of men!
Go ask the banker, with his golden seals;
Go ask the borrower, cringing at his heels;
Go ask the maid, who, emulous of woe,
Discards the worthier for the wealthier beau;
Go ask the parson, when a higher prize
Points with the salary where his duty lies;
Go ask the lawyer, who, in legal smoke,
Stands, like a stoker, redolent of “Coke,”
And swings his arms to emphasize a plea
Made doubly ardent by a golden fee;
Go ask the doctor, who has kindly sped
Old Crœsus, dying on a damask bed,
While his poor neighbor—wonderful to tell—
Was left to Nature, suffered, and got well!
Go ask the belle, in high patrician pride,
Who spurns the maiden nurtured at her side,
Her youth's loved playmate at the village school,
Ere changing fortune taught the rigid rule
Which marks the loftier from the lowlier lot,—
Those who have money from those who have not!
Of all the ills that owe their baneful rise
To wealth o'ergrown, the most despotic vice
Is Circean Luxury; prolific dame
Of mental impotence and moral shame,
And all the cankering evils that debase
The human form and dwarf the human race.
See yon strange figure, and a moment scan
That slenderest sample of the genus man!
Mark, as he ambles, those precarious pegs
Which by their motion must be deemed his legs!
He has a head,—one may be sure of that
By just observing that he wears a hat;
That he has arms is logically plain
From his wide coat-sleeves and his pendent cane;
A tongue as well,—the inference is fair,
Since, on occasion, he can lisp and swear.
You ask his use?—that's not so very clear,
Unless to spend five thousand pounds a year
In modish vices which his soul adores,
Drink, dress, and gaming, horses, hounds, and scores
Of other follies which I can't rehearse,
Dear to himself and dearer to his purse.
Go look abroad upon the ways of men!
Go ask the banker, with his golden seals;
Go ask the borrower, cringing at his heels;
Go ask the maid, who, emulous of woe,
Discards the worthier for the wealthier beau;
Go ask the parson, when a higher prize
Points with the salary where his duty lies;
Go ask the lawyer, who, in legal smoke,
Stands, like a stoker, redolent of “Coke,”
And swings his arms to emphasize a plea
Made doubly ardent by a golden fee;
Go ask the doctor, who has kindly sped
Old Crœsus, dying on a damask bed,
While his poor neighbor—wonderful to tell—
Was left to Nature, suffered, and got well!
Go ask the belle, in high patrician pride,
Who spurns the maiden nurtured at her side,
Her youth's loved playmate at the village school,
Ere changing fortune taught the rigid rule
Which marks the loftier from the lowlier lot,—
Those who have money from those who have not!
Of all the ills that owe their baneful rise
To wealth o'ergrown, the most despotic vice
Is Circean Luxury; prolific dame
Of mental impotence and moral shame,
And all the cankering evils that debase
The human form and dwarf the human race.
See yon strange figure, and a moment scan
That slenderest sample of the genus man!
Mark, as he ambles, those precarious pegs
Which by their motion must be deemed his legs!
He has a head,—one may be sure of that
By just observing that he wears a hat;
That he has arms is logically plain
From his wide coat-sleeves and his pendent cane;
A tongue as well,—the inference is fair,
Since, on occasion, he can lisp and swear.
You ask his use?—that's not so very clear,
Unless to spend five thousand pounds a year
In modish vices which his soul adores,
Drink, dress, and gaming, horses, hounds, and scores
Of other follies which I can't rehearse,
Dear to himself and dearer to his purse.
No product he of Fortune's fickle dice,
The due result of Luxury and Vice,
Three generations have sufficed to bring
That narrow chested, pale, enervate thing
Down from a man,—for, marvel as you will,
His huge great-grandsire fought on Bunker Hill!
Bore, without gloves, a musket through the war;
Came back adorned with many a noble scar;
Labored and prospered at a thriving rate,
And, dying, left his heir a snug estate,—
Which grew apace upon his busy hands,
Stocks, ships, and factories, tenements and lands.
All here at last,—the money and the race,—
The latter ending in that foolish face;
The former wandering, far beyond his aim,
Back to the rough plebeians whence it came!
The due result of Luxury and Vice,
Three generations have sufficed to bring
That narrow chested, pale, enervate thing
Down from a man,—for, marvel as you will,
His huge great-grandsire fought on Bunker Hill!
Bore, without gloves, a musket through the war;
Came back adorned with many a noble scar;
Labored and prospered at a thriving rate,
And, dying, left his heir a snug estate,—
Which grew apace upon his busy hands,
Stocks, ships, and factories, tenements and lands.
216
The latter ending in that foolish face;
The former wandering, far beyond his aim,
Back to the rough plebeians whence it came!
Enough of censure; let my humble lays
Employ one moment in congenial praise.
Let other pens with pious ardor paint
The selfish virtues of the cloistered saint;
In lettered marble let the stranger read
Of him who, dying, did a worthy deed,
And left to charity the cherished store
Which, to his sorrow, he could hoard no more.
I venerate the nobler man who gives
His generous dollars while the donor lives;
Gives with a heart as liberal as the palms
That to the needy spread his honored alms;
Gives with a head whose yet unclouded light
To worthiest objects points the giver's sight;
Gives with a hand still potent to enforce
His well-aimed bounty, and direct its course;—
Such is the giver who must stand confest
In giving glorious, and supremely blest!
One such as this the captious world could find
In noble Perkins, angel of the blind;
One such as this in princely Lawrence shone,
Ere heavenly kindred claimed him for their own!
Employ one moment in congenial praise.
Let other pens with pious ardor paint
The selfish virtues of the cloistered saint;
In lettered marble let the stranger read
Of him who, dying, did a worthy deed,
And left to charity the cherished store
Which, to his sorrow, he could hoard no more.
I venerate the nobler man who gives
His generous dollars while the donor lives;
Gives with a heart as liberal as the palms
That to the needy spread his honored alms;
Gives with a head whose yet unclouded light
To worthiest objects points the giver's sight;
Gives with a hand still potent to enforce
His well-aimed bounty, and direct its course;—
Such is the giver who must stand confest
In giving glorious, and supremely blest!
One such as this the captious world could find
In noble Perkins, angel of the blind;
One such as this in princely Lawrence shone,
Ere heavenly kindred claimed him for their own!
To me the boon may gracious Heaven assign,—
No cringing suppliant at Mammon's shrine,
Nor slave of Poverty,—with joy to share
The happy mean expressed in Agur's prayer:—
A house (my own) to keep me safe and warm,
A shade in sunshine, and a shield in storm;
A generous board, and fitting raiment, clear
Of debts and duns throughout the circling year;
Silver and gold, in moderate store, that I
May purchase joys that only these can buy;
Some gems of art, a cultured mind to please,
Books, pictures, statues, literary ease.
That “Time is money” prudent Franklin shows
In rhyming couplets and sententious prose.
Oh, had he taught the world, in prose and rhyme,
The higher truth that Money may be Time!
And showed the people, in his pleasant ways,
The art of coining dollars into days!
Days for improvement, days for social life,
Days for your God, your children, and your wife;
Some days for pleasure, and an hour to spend
In genial converse with an honest friend.
Such days be mine!—and grant me, Heaven, but this,
With blooming health, man's highest earthly bliss,—
And I will read, without a sigh or frown,
The startling news that stocks are going down;
Hear without envy that a stranger hoards
Or spends more treasure than a mint affords;
See my next neighbor pluck a golden plum,
Calm and content within my cottage-home;
Take for myself what honest thrift may bring,
And for his kindness bless the Money-King!
No cringing suppliant at Mammon's shrine,
Nor slave of Poverty,—with joy to share
The happy mean expressed in Agur's prayer:—
A house (my own) to keep me safe and warm,
A shade in sunshine, and a shield in storm;
A generous board, and fitting raiment, clear
Of debts and duns throughout the circling year;
Silver and gold, in moderate store, that I
May purchase joys that only these can buy;
Some gems of art, a cultured mind to please,
Books, pictures, statues, literary ease.
That “Time is money” prudent Franklin shows
In rhyming couplets and sententious prose.
Oh, had he taught the world, in prose and rhyme,
The higher truth that Money may be Time!
And showed the people, in his pleasant ways,
The art of coining dollars into days!
Days for improvement, days for social life,
Days for your God, your children, and your wife;
Some days for pleasure, and an hour to spend
In genial converse with an honest friend.
Such days be mine!—and grant me, Heaven, but this,
With blooming health, man's highest earthly bliss,—
And I will read, without a sigh or frown,
The startling news that stocks are going down;
Hear without envy that a stranger hoards
Or spends more treasure than a mint affords;
See my next neighbor pluck a golden plum,
Calm and content within my cottage-home;
Take for myself what honest thrift may bring,
And for his kindness bless the Money-King!
| The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe | |