Page:Poems Cook.djvu/188

'Tis an Etna, burning with demon hate;
 'Tis an Eden, breathing devotion's sigh;
'Tis a tyrant wielding the sceptre of state;
 'Tis a crouching slave to a gentle eye.

"It panteth to claim the laurel of Fame;
 It starteth in chase of the daisies of spring;
It labours in search of a deathless name;
 It runneth a race with a painted wing.

"It hath fouler blots than the leper's spots;
 It leapeth in freedom, nobly pure;
It quails at the touch of a careless word;
 It can stretch to the rack-rope, and bravely endure.

"It yieldeth the fire that hallows the lyre;
 It formeth the poet's rich key-note;
It nerveth the murderer's lurking hand,
 To clutch the knife and grapple the throat.

"It doeth in mercy the deeds divine;
 It works in oppression, accursed and cold;
It stands unbribed by an Eastern mine—
 For a ducat of dross 'tis bought and sold.

"Oh! 'tis a mazy and mystic thing;
 It deceiveth my trust and foileth my lore;
I am watching it still with a right goodwill,
 But it winneth my wonder more and more.

"I am waning away," quoth the gray old man,
 "My sands are few—I shall soon depart;
But, while I stay," quoth the gray old man—
 "I shall marvel most at the human heart."

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