Of Araby, Gaetulia’s sun-scorched land;
The desolate regions of Hyperborean ice,
Call with one voice to wrinkled Avarice:
He hears; he feels no toil, nor sword, nor sea,
Shrinks from no disgrace but virtuous poverty.
“Forth! ’mid a shouting nation bring
Thy precious gems, thy wealth untold;
Into the seas or temple fling
Thy vile unprofitable gold.
Roman, repent, and from within