Know! thou man of suff’ring proud, Ills that press, and woes that cloud! Know, that gold doth hold a charm Want to banish, care disarm— To dispel the father’s fears, And suppress kind woman’s tears. Gold ensures the ready meal, And the joys the lib’ral feel, In the palace, or the cot, Fam’d, applauded, or forgot. Oft its peace-inspiring power Gilds fair virtue’s evening hour— Oft, at stern-eyed power’s command, Renovates a drooping land— Opening, by a blest employ, Founts of noble, lasting joy: From its toil-impelling springs, Commerce spreads her daring wings; Art uprears the public dome, Agriculture treads her loom, And a thousand pleasures stand To obey its potent wand. It is not wealth that ills produce— So sages write—but its _abuse_. MONGAZID. Yet, is the sweet with bitter blent, And all without that boon—content! Else hadst thou not quit friend and home, In these unmeasured wilds to roam; Or boldly dared this forest-sea For gains, that still thy grasp shall flee— Or proffered me thy valued pelf To sell my gods—my peace—myself! ETHWALD. Thou wouldst shun the white man’s joy, Lest there should be slight alloy: Know, to mortal is not given Joy unmixed, by righteous heaven: Death and sorrow, toil and woe, All must dread, and all must know. But me thinks thy purpose stern, That would neither teach nor learn, Give nor guide, remit or feel, Doth some _secret_ power reveal— Power that doth thy being sway, And thou must, perforce, obey! Is it pride of hunter fame, Azid’s art, or Azid’s name? Is it dread of fate severe, Is it hope, or is it fear? MONGAZID. Fear of mortal shaft or ill, Foeman’s ire or foeman’s skill— Dread of pain or dread of woe, Azid’s heart can never know! It hath breasted famine drear, And the jagged flinty spear, Warrior’s wrath, or wizard’s sign, Nor doth dread the force of thine! ETHWALD. Wizard am I not, nor part, Read or know of such foul art, False and visionary. There, Wrapt in his robes of holy care, Behold yon pilgrim, early gray, Companion of my toilsome way, As now along the desert strand, With sober tread, he marks the sand— E’en now his lips the skies implore, Thy long-lost people to restore; To lead their steps where joys invite, And love, and truth, and life, and light! Disciple he, severe and high, Of the great ruler of the sky, To thee but known by thunders loud, The rushing wind, the fire-lit cloud; But to our fathers, sage and eld, By holy word and book revealed. If aught from fiend, or spirit’s wile Thou fearest on the desert isle, His simple, solemn, sacred pray’r Shall guard and guide and bless thee there. OSCAR.