“And so you parted?” with a moisten'd eye,
Said Morvale;— “nay, man, spare me the reply;
Too much the Eve has moved me ——”
“Not to feel
That for the serpent which thy looks reveal,”
Said Arden, sadly smiling; “yet in truth,
See how the grey world grafts its age on youth;
See how we learn to prize the bullion Vice,
Coin'd in all shapes, yet still but Avarice;
The stamp may vary,— you the coin may call
‘ Ambition,’‘ Power,’‘ Success,’ — but Gold is all.
Mine is the memoir of a selfish age:
Turn every leaf — slight difference in the page;
Through each, the same fierce struggle to secure
Earth's one great end — distinction from the Poor;
All our true wealth, like alchemists of old,
Fused in the furnace — for a grain of gold.