ental gold,
Sierra on Sierra rise.

Heap up the gold of all the world,
The ore that makes men fools and slaves;
What is it to the gold, cloud-curled,
That rivers through the sunset's caves!

Search Earth for riches all who will,
The gold that soils, that turns to dust--
Be mine the wealth no thief can steal,
The gold of God that can not rust.

BEAUTY AND ART.

The gods are dead; but still for me
Lives on in wildwood brook and tree
Each myth, each old divinity.

For me still laughs among her rocks
The Naiad; and the Dryad's locks
Drop perfume on the wild-flower flocks.

The Satyr hoof still prints the loam;
And, whiter than the wind-blown foam,
The Oread haunts her mountain home.

To him, whose mind is fain to dwell
With loveliness no time can quell,
All things are real, imperishable.

To him--whatever facts may say--
Who sees the soul beneath the clay,
Is proof of a diviner day.

The very stars and flowers preach
A gospel old as God, and teach
Philosophy a child may reach;

That can not die, that shall not cease,
That lives through idealities
Of beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece;

That lift the soul above the clod,
And, working out some period
Of art, are part and proof of God.

THE AGE OF GOLD.

The clouds, that tower in storm, that beat
Arterial thunder in their veins;
The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet,
Their perfect faces from the plains,--
All high, all lowly things of Earth
For no vague end have had their birth.

Low strips of mist, that mesh the moon
Above the foaming waterfall;
And mountains that God's hand hath hewn,
And forests where the great winds call,--
Within the grasp of such as see
Are parts of a conspiracy;

To seize the soul with beauty; hold
The heart with love, and so fulfill
Within ourselves the Age of Gold,
That never died, and never will,--
So long as one true nature feels
The wonders that the world reveals.

THE LOVE OF LOVES.

I have not seen her face, and yet
She is more sweet than any thing
Of Earth--than rose or violet
That Mayday winds and sunbeams bring.
Of all we know, past or to come,
That beauty holds within its net,
She is the high compendium:
And yet--

I have not touched her robe, and still
She is more dear than lyric words
And music; or than strai