LINES TO A LUMP OF VIRGIN GOLD.
Dull, yellow, heavy, lusterless—
With less of radiance than the burnished tress,
Crumpled on Beauty's forehead; clodish, cold,
Kneaded together with the common mold;
Worn by sharp contact with the fretted edges
Of ancient drifts, or prisoned in deep ledges;
Hidden within some mountain's rugged breast
From man's desire and quest—
Would thou couldst speak and tell the mystery
That shrines thy history!
Yet 'tis of little consequence,
Today, to know how them wert made, or whence
Earthquake and flood have brought thee; them art here,
At once the master that men love and fear;
Whom they have sought by many strange devices,
In ancient riverbeds; 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;
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