The golden age,—and yet no gold possest!
Yes-'twas that very want that made it golden;
When none for fines, debts, rents, marr’d others' rest;
For neither corn, nor wine, nor oil, were sold then ;
When all own'd all—and that was surely best;
But that was in the time by bards call'd olden,'Tis different now, when men love heaping up, Yet find their thirst but craves a bitter cup.
The golden age! that must have been before
Men toil'd for silver-copper-aught call'd money: Gold brought the iron age, when men for ore
Battled, unlike the bee who works for honey:
Now 'tis the age of brass, and men no more,
Proud Gold, dare raise their heads till they have won ye! The nearest to the golden age of any,
Was that when one day's labour gain'd a penny.
If he be happier who has fewer cares,
He must be happiest who has nought to care for;
And be the farthest from that dream, who shares
Most of that miserable dust,—and therefore
He who has nought the lightest spirit bears:
Then why should toil and anguish mortals wear-for
That which, when hardly gain'd, will but increase
The thorns that pierce his couch, and wound his peace.
Is that a happiness, which binds to earth
The spirit that should struggle to the sky?
Destroy the fancied good,-what is that worth,
That bids sense-feeling-honour prostrate lie?
That sears the very heart, and bids a dearth,
Like glittering sands, shine on the aching eye?
And who so cold, so fruitless, as the miser,
Who lives to be nor happier nor wiser?
Behold him in his hovel: there no pleasure
Cheers him,-save that of counting o'er his hoard;
His iron chests, though loaded beyond measure,
Scarce yield a meal to cheer his naked board,—
He starves and withers in the midst of treasure;
Nor can his hand what nature needs afford:
The poorest of the poor, for all his store;
More curst than he who begs from door to door.
Of all the plagues that torture hapless man,
Those that relate to money are the worst ;
And ever since the coining pest began,
Of mortal evils it has stood the first;
So hard to get-to keep so hard to plan,
The very metal seems to be accurst;
That even those who have the most, but find
It leaves a lasting fever in the mind.
Else why should thousands squander it so fast?
Drink-gamble-try a hundred ways to spend it:
If 'twere a good, they'd strive to make it last,
Not mar their health-toil night and day to end it. Some risk it wholesale on a desperate cast,
Take shares in theatres,-build bridges,-lend it ; Others, as if they could not bear their sight on't, Bury it where the sun can shed no light on't,
Some, when they've got it, don't know what to do
To keep it from the prying eyes of men;
Try every art to shut it out from view,
Yet seem to wish to find it safe again;
Hide it in garrets, walls, and cellars too,
Like some black proof of crime, from mortal ken! Which proves that its possession but disgraces, Or else why put it in such secret places?
And others, with a rueful face of sorrow,
Though rich as Croesus, swear they've not a penny; For fear some bosom friend should beg or borrow; Tell all the world, (and 'tis the case with many,) They don't know where to get a meal to-morrow: And, as for hope of change, they have not any; Which shows us, that they hold the name Of being rich, a mark of guilt or shame.
The wealthy scarcely know if those who speak
Their friendship, act from interest or love;
They know not how the smile that decks the cheek
The touchstone of adversity might prove:
But they who kindly come the poor to seek-
To sooth-to aid,-regard alone must move;
They who have nothing in the world to spare,
May deem sincere the friendship that they share.
The rich have scarce an hour to call their own;
Their Midas knockers echo night and day;
They hardly know what 'tis to be alone,
To give their thoughts uninterrupted play.
The poor are little visited or known-
The unregarding crowd pass on their way-
Their time, their only property on earth,
Is all their own, howe'er of little worth.
I hate unnecessary ceremony,
The rich are tortured by it night and day;
While I, who haply have not any money,
Am ne'er obstructed by it on my way:
It might be thought, to me, all hearts were stony,-
I deem it is a compliment they pay;
Since man is freest with his dearest friends,
Nor cares a farthing when he lowest bends.
But when the rich man comes into a room,
All start from off their seats in such a hurry,
As if it were high treason to presume
To sit in quiet, and betray no flurry,Or, until he is fix'd, their posts resume:
All this to me would be a perfect worry! Whatever place I enter, no one cares→→
All are so free-ev'n school-boys keep their chairs.
He who increaseth wealth, increaseth sorrow-
And yet man lays up all his treasure here;
His joys his hopes-still hang upon the morrow,
Nor often are more certain, nor more near.
"Twere better toil like slaves, or beg, or borrow,
Than waste the day in care-the night in fear,
Dreaming of debtors, compositions, losses-
And all the thousand terms of money's crosses.
If, as the school-boy says, multiplication
(When a sad row of figures meets his eye,)
Is nothing but the acme of vexation;
In after life, when love of gold is high,
Subtraction is a greater tribulation;
When bankrupt's-(not bank)-dividends draw nigh
Where, when the creditor desires addition,
Some vile insolvent comes and works division.
He who possesses much, has much to lose,-
And that's a thing which tries the temper much;
More than a crying child, or scolding spouse:
He who invades the pocket, dares to touch
What few are willing other hands should use,
And therefore grasps it with an iron clutch;
And, when against the will 'tis forced apart,
'Tis like phlebotomizing from the heart.
I-(that's the fancied bard who sings-not me -
Am safe from all the agonies of loss;
From robber-debtor-borrowing friend-am free,-
And therefore such can never make me cross:
The wind might join in conflict with the sea-
I have no argosies for storms to toss ;
Earthquakes might wreck from Greenland to the line,
They could not bury house nor land of mine.
Money involves the world in tribulation,-
Produces envy, hatred, theft, and strife ;
Gives birth to half the laws that vex the nation,-
It makes friends quarrel, severs man and wife!
Named every day and hour with execration,-
Man's first-last trouble-and prime pest of life.
Nations and individuals war about it,
Because men fancy they can't do without it.
All things alarm the nonied man, the wind,
Raging at night, appals his soul with fears;
He dreads, when morning comes, that he shall find
Barns, or old houses, blown about his ears;
If it be moonlight-then his anxious mind
Thinks of his tenants,-reckons their arrears,-
And deems that he shall find them gone next day,
And neither goods nor chattels left to pay.
A monarch's death,-the altering of a law,-
News from a friendly or a hostile state,-
The quarrels of two kings he never saw,-
Intelligence received too soon-too late,-
A Royal stomach's gout,-a legal flaw,-
These are sufficient to affect his fate!
Chances and changes, barr'd from all insurance,
Threaten his peace and pocket past endurance.
They who have much are always wanting more,
And seldom have a shilling they can spare;
Grasping at purchases to swell their store,
Present enjoyment never claims their care:
While I, who ne'er o'er sales by auction pore,
. (And, if I did, should have no business there,)
Reckless enjoy my little day by day,
And make myself as happy as I may.
I'm poor and old,—and I remember well
What thousands hurried to the Bank one day
To get their gold, when luckless paper fell;
They crowded round the door demanding pay,-
Lawyers, physicians, spinsters, mix'd pell mell-
Peers, tradesmen, farmers, elbowing away,-
All classes,-all conditions,-save the poet,-
Gold they have none, their lofty souls forego it!
I saw that crowd-beheld unmoved their trouble,
Their eyeballs in the yellow fever roll'd;
The half of them are gone, despite the bubble,-
I, who had nothing, live-and they are cold;
And cold they would be, had their stock been double;
They died, however three per centum sold;
While I have had each needful boon of life,
Without their stock, scrip, omnium, or strife.
When fortune's at its lowest, things must mend;
He who has nothing, knows no fear of worse:
If Hope be still man's best and dearest friend,
He who has all to hope for, from the curse
Of dark despair is freest,-she may send
That needful thing (as life is now) a purse:
Hope is the poor man's friend, and he enjoys it,
Even though disappointment oft alloys it.
There is a pleasure even in despair,
A calm, mix'd, wine-and-water reverie;
He, who can fearlessly stand forth, and dare
Fortune to send him one more misery,
Has there a boast the richer cannot share:
They who are high may, therefore, lower be;
But he who is at fortune's lowest state,
Is really placed beyond the reach of fate.
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