Dull, yellow, heavy, lustreless-- With less of radiance than the burnished tress, Crumpled on Beauty's forehead: cloddish, 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 could'st speak and tell the mystery That shrines thy history! Yet 'tis of little consequence, To-day, to know how thou wert made, or whence Earthquake and flood have brought thee: thou art here, At once the master that men love and fear-- Whom they have sought by many strange devices, In ancient river-beds; 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; Fled over burning plains; in deserts fainted; Wearied for months at sea--yet ever painted Thee as the shining Mecca, that to gain Invalidated pain, Cured the sick soul--made nugatory evil Of man or devil. Alas, and well-a-day! we know What idle dreams were these that fooled men so. On yonder hillside sleep in nameless graves, To which they went untended, the poor slaves Of fruitless toil; the victims of a fever Called home-sickness--no remedy found ever; Or slain by vices that grow rankly where Men madly do and dare, In alternations of high hope and deep abysses Of recklessnesses. Painfully, and by violence: Even as heaven is taken, thou wert dragged whence Nature had hidden thee--whose face is worn With anxious furrows, and her bosom torn In the hard strife--and ever yet there lingers Upon these hills work for the "effacing fingers" Of time, the healer, who makes all things seem A half forgotten dream; Who smooths deep furrows and lone graves together, By touch of wind and weather. Thou heavy, lustreless, dull clod! Digged from the earth like a base common sod; I wonder at thee, and thy power to hold The world in bond to thee, thou yellow gold! Yet do I sadly own thy fascination, And would I gladly show my estimation By giving house-room to thee, if thou'lt come And cumber up my home;-- I'd even promise not to call attention To these things that I mention!