Page:The New Penelope.djvu/289

Rh In the hard strife—and ever yet there lingers

Upon these hills work for the "effacing fingers"

Of time, the healer, who makes all things seem

A half forgotten dream;

Who smooths deep furrows and lone graves together,

By touch of wind and weather.

Thou heavy, lustreless, 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 sovreign 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:

Ours is the comfort, ease, the power, the fame

Of an exalted name: