Wealth is a curse, our old men said, [Their wisdom speaks, though they be dead,] Wealth is a curse, and all its trust A breath of wind—a heap of dust: ’Tis here—’tis gone! told or untold— And Mystery is my name for gold. We have been pining, since we knew The wonders ye could make it do— But find with cavil, years, and time, It is the white man’s curse and crime. Of old, our fathers held it good To deal in shells, and rove the wood; And had no fear of scaith or storm, With food, and skins to keep them warm. But ye, with your unhallowed gain, Have burned our forests from the plain, Causing our hope—our game—to fly, And making life itself a lie.
ETHWALD.
Know! thou man of suff’ring proud, Ills that press, and woes that cloud! Know, that gold doth hold a charm Want to banish, care disarm— To dispel the father’s fears, And suppress kind woman’s tears. Gold ensures the ready meal, And the joys the lib’ral feel, In the palace, or the cot, Fam’d, applauded, or forgot. Oft its peace-inspiring power Gilds fair virtue’s evening hour— Oft, at stern-eyed power’s command, Renovates a drooping land— Opening, by a blest employ, Founts of noble, lasting joy: From its toil-impelling springs, Commerce spreads her daring wings; Art uprears the public dome, Agriculture treads her loom, And a thousand pleasures stand To obey its potent wand. It is not wealth that ills produce— So sages write—but its abuse.
MONGAZID.
Yet, is the sweet with bitter blent, And all without that boon—content! Else hadst thou not quit friend and home, In these unmeasured wilds to roam; Or boldly dared this forest-sea For gains, that still thy grasp shall flee— Or proffered me thy valued pelf To sell my gods—my peace—myself!
ETHWALD.
Thou wouldst shun the white man’s joy, Lest there should be slight alloy: Know, to mortal is not given Joy unmixed, by righteous heaven: Death and sorrow, toil and woe, All must dread, and all must know. But me thinks thy purpose stern, That would neither teach nor learn, Give nor guide, remit or feel, Doth some secret power reveal— Power that doth thy being sway, And thou must, perforce, obey! Is it pride of hunter fame, Azid’s art, or Azid’s name? Is it dread of fate severe, Is it hope, or is it fear?
MONGAZID.
Fear of mortal shaft or ill, Foeman’s ire or foeman’s skill— Dread of pain or dread of woe, Azid’s heart can never know! It hath breasted famine drear, And the jagged flinty spear, Warrior’s wrath, or wizard’s sign, Nor doth dread the force of thine!
ETHWALD.