Page:Poems by Frances Fuller Victor.djvu/76

 Thou heavy, lusterless, dull clod,

Digged from the earth like a base, common sod,

I wonder at thee, and thy power to hold

The world in bond to thee, thou yellow gold.

Yet do I sadly own thy fascination,

And would I gladly show my estimation

By giving house-room to thee, if thou'lt come

And cumber up my home;—

I'd even promise not to call attention

To these things that I mention.

"The King can do no wrong," and thou

Art King indeed to most of us, I trow.

Thou'rt an enchanter, at whose sovereign will

All that there is of progress, learning, skill,

Of beauty, culture, grace—and I might even

Include religion, though that flouts at heaven—

Comes at thy bidding, flies before thy loss—

And yet men call thee dross—

If thou art dross, then I mistaken be

Of thy identity.

Ah, solid, weighty, beautiful!

How could I first have said that thou wert dull?

How could have wondered that men willingly

Gave up their homes, and toiled and died for thee?

Theirs was the martyrdom in which was planted

A glorious state, by precious memories haunted; 68