The Gold Fields.

A poem by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Here is a tale the North Wind sang to me:
Hell hath set Mammon o'er a frozen land,
Crowned him with gold, put gold into his hand,
And men forsake their God to bow the knee
Again unto this world-old deity
Whose rule is wheresoe'er man's feet go forth,
Whether they track the grim and icy North,
Or Afric's scorching sweeps of sandy sea.
About his throne they crawl and curse and weep;
The tenfold pangs of darkness and of cold
Bite at their hearts, and hound them as they creep,
Thief-like, to catch his scattered crumbs of gold;--
And over all still burns God's warning scroll:
"What profit it if ye shall lose your soul?"