'Follow! beneath the earth's black mould
Gold never rusts--and thy dear gold
Shall shine in others' hands!'
What! from his country's councils drag
The statesman proud? away!--
'I call thee to a court more high,
Where angel-forms, above the sky,
Throng round God's throne alway!
Against my ancient 'scutcheon--ha!--
To raise thy scythe dar'st thou?