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SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF GOLD.

Mine is the rare magician's hand;
Mine is the mighty, fairy wand!
Monarchs may boast, but none can hold
Such powerful sway as the spirit of Gold.
The wigwam tent, the regal dome,
The senator's bench, the peasant home;
The menial serf, the pirate bold,—
All, all are ruled by the spirit of Gold.

I spread my sceptre, and put to flight.
Stern Poverty's croaking bird of night;
And where I come 'tis passing strange
To note the swift and wondrous change
I rest with the one whose idiot tongue
Was the scorn of the old, and jest of the young;
But flattering worshippers soon crawl round,
And the rich man's wit and sense are found.

Some lowly child of earth has err'd,
And Mercy breathes no lenient word;
The fallen one becomes a mark
For every human bloodhound's bark.
Virtue can spare no pitying sigh;
Justice condemns with freezing eye;
Till the pressing load of blight and blame
Goad on to deeper guilt and shame.

But let me shield the sinning one,—
And dark are the deeds that may be done;
Vice in its "high career" may reign,
It meets no bar, it leaves no stain.
Passion and Crime may wear the mask,
No hand will strip, no lip will task;
The record of sin may be unroll'd,
None read, if 'tis traced in letters of Gold.

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