Page:Poems Cook.djvu/250

The dame has come to her waning years—
And Man goes by with his laughing jeers.
Who, who can love? what creature seeks
The softness of such wrinkled checks!
But, lo! she is rich, and scores will bring
The lover's vow and the bridal ring;
And many a heart, so bought and sold,
Has lived to curse the spirit of Gold.

Does it not pain the breast to note
How the eyes of the aged will glisten and gloat?
How the hands will count with careful stealth
O'er the growing stores of useless wealth?
They bend to me with a martyr's knee—
And many a time have I laugh'd to see
The man of fourscore, pale and cold,
Stinting his fire to save his Gold.

Pile on to your masses, add heap to heap,
While those around you may starve and weep;
But forget not, hoary-headed slave,
That thou, not gold, must fill a grave:
Thou canst not haggle and bargain for breath,
Thy coffers won't serve to bar out death;
Thou must be poor when the churchyard stone
And the shroud will be all that thou canst own.

Hatred dwells in the poor man's breast,
But the foe may safely be his guest;
Though his wrongs may madden to despair,
The injured one must brook and bear.
But let the princely heart desire
Revenge to quench its raging fire;
Though it even crave to be fed with life,
Gold, Gold will find the ready knife.

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