A queen amid her menial train preside;
And quite forgets that she his wiser wife,
Would love some cot, wherein to pass their life:—­
Till Fate, vindictive, lays her lover low
Far from the hand which might relieve his woe. 
At last, he dies—­his spirit’s latest groan
By her unheard—­his latest wish unknown. 
Thus Heaven hath punished him whose love of gold
Hath made him slight what he should dearest hold.

Beside yon haw-crowned hill, a widowed dame,
Dwelt with her son, by whom her living came. 
Enticed by gorgeous dreams that haunt his sleep,
Her age’s pillar wanders o’er the deep—­
Deserts his aged, widowed, trembling dame—­
Ah thus will gain destroy the sense of shame! 
There on those barren hills and burning plains,
His insane fancy gloats on glittering gains. 
Until, at last, avenging fever lays,
His form on earth, through dark, delirious days,
Without a mother’s soothing care to ease
His dying throes, beyond those distant seas. 
Yet, when, in that brief space which comes before,
The spirit flies, to visit earth no more,
A transient light breads on his wildest brain,
His bosom speaks in this lamenting strain! 
“Ah! damning love of gold, which sees me here,
And made me leave an aged mother dear. 
Now Heaven, how just! repays my guilty deed! 
No mother soothes me in my sorest need. 
Yet if kind Heaven will prize that mother’s prayer,
Which, incense-like, now rises through the air;
I build my faith—­that my last breath will ope
The gate of bliss to my believing hope.”

Far mid yon vastest woods, behold a swain. 
If small his joy, small is his spirit’s pain. 
He tills the soil, for him the wild flowers bloom,
And lovely daisies shed their meek perfume. 
His happy wife, relieves his every care,
And bliss is double when enjoyed with her. 
His flocks supply his little household dear,
With decent garments, and salubrious fare. 
Glad he beholds the smiling god of day,
Walk from the East upon his radiant way,
Gild all the fields—­the lengthy plains—­the peaks
Of giant mountains, with vermillion streaks—­
While all his farm spreads out beneath his eyes,
His heart’s sweet home—­his little paradise. 
How better far this humble, noiseless life—­
Afar from guilty gold and bloody strife. 
How glad he views his prosperous projects smile,
What guiltless joys his long, long life beguile. 
With joy he sees his offspring rise around,
His body’s scions, with sweet virtue crowned. 
And, when, at last, his form succumbs to time,
He sees that offspring strangers yet to crime;
And, inly joys to think his drooping age
They will sustain, and all his pains assuage,
Till, like an apple mellowed, ripe, and sound,
He falls, and slumbers in his own good ground.

THE PROPHECY OF COLUMBIA.