XXXII
O, god of gold, whose universal sway
Is not the underworld, on the Plutonic shore,
And hideous, like that of Spencer’s dream,
But on our terra’s face, bright with the gleam
Of mid-day sun, thy power has ever more
Commanded human nature to obey!
Thou sittest not in gloomy woods and caves,
A loathsome creature with the hoarded pelf,
But in the palace and the mansion bright,
In marble temples large and fair, bedight,
A princely being, though controlled by Self,
To whom most men submit themselves as slaves.
The beautiful, the learnéd, and the strong
Are vying with the baser mass to serve
Thee ardently, that favor they may find,
They offer beauty, skill of hand and mind,
And ceaseless toil, until the vital nerve
Of life is gone, the source of joy and song.
Some barter soul and body for the gold,
And bear but semblance to the freeborn man;
The food is rich, the wine is sparkling red,
What matter then, if soul and heart are dead;—
But in the darkness stand the masses wan,
And homeless children shiver in the cold.
Thou rulest kings and statesmen in their places,
Thou makest war, and causest it to cease,
Thou art the world’s supremest autocrat,
And e’en our land is bending on the mat
Before thy power’s terrible increase,
Which even the shallow lawgiver amazes.
It is not lavish gifts alone that bind,
But ev’n the droppings of the shining ore,
Thus here, the tips, Sordino gave the salt,
Enthralled him to a virtue or a fault,—
So in a whisper, recklessly he swore:
“I’ll take that coward and knock out his wind!”
Just then Sordino’s foe was entering
The bar-room with a smile of exultation;—
The salt arose and held him by the arm,
The soldier looked at him with small alarm,
Or rather with a frown of irritation,
And sought the drunken sailor from him fling,—
Who brawled aloud: “Thou Judas ’Scarioth,
Who would again for thirty shillings sell
Our holy Mary’s son, look on my face
As one who helped thee in thy wicked ways,
To make a fortune on a stolen bell,
Inscribed with glory to Lord Zebaoth!”
“I knew not better then, but now I do,—
Those bells, we freighted, were but stolen good,
And thou the thief, enriched by robbing God,—
Thou thinkest, all are resting ’neath the sod,
Who knew their tale, but by the holy Rood,
There is one yet alive who’ll make thee rue!”
At which the soldier grasped his sword to fight;
The sailor laughed: “Strik’st thou the weaponless?”
He fell upon the floor, stabbed in the breast.
Then rose Sordino and to all confest:
“I am the man behind this sorry mess,
But will take pains to settle it aright.”
He drew his sword and challenging his rival,
They bore upon each other with a fury,
Which in Sordino reached a double strength,
He felt that fate had brought him this, at length,
Not even the Archbishop of Canterbury,
Could stop him now from being the survival.
The parries of the combatants revealed
Their mastery in fencing, and it seemed
A doubtful issue who should win the fray,
When suddenly besides the sailor lay
The soldier with a gash, from which there streamed
A flood of life, the young man’s doom was sealed.
That night the sailor and the soldier perished;
Sordino and his page set out on flight;
But Stella and her father mourned the loss
Of one whom they thought gold, but was mere dross,—
A fortune-soldier with no sense of right,
Who nought but selfish aims had ever cherished.
A double life may win the noblest heart
By hiding foulness neath pretended good,
Until the judgment-day reveals the truth,
And to the innocent the crushing ruth,
When he, that trusted was, is understood,
And all dissemblings from his life depart.