Gold

We rovers bold,
To the land of Gold,
Over the bowling billows are gliding:
Eager to toil,
For the golden spoil,
And every hardship biding.
See! See!
Before our prows' resistless dashes
The gold-fish fly in golden flashes!
'Neath a sun of gold,
We rovers bold,
On the golden land are gaining;
And every night,
We steer aright,
By golden stars unwaning!
All fires burn a golden glare:
No locks so bright as golden hair!
All orange groves have golden gushings;
All mornings dawn with golden flushings!
In a shower of gold, say fables old,
A maiden was won by the god of gold!
In golden goblets wine is beaming:
On golden couches kings are dreaming!
The Golden Rule dries many tears!
The Golden Number rules the spheres!
Gold, gold it is, that sways the nations:
Gold! gold! the center of all rotations!
On golden axles worlds are turning:
With phosphorescence seas are burning!
All fire-flies flame with golden gleamings!
Gold-hunters' hearts with golden dreamings!
With golden arrows kings are slain:
With gold we'll buy a freeman's name!
In toilsome trades, for scanty earnings,
At home we've slaved, with stifled yearnings:
No light! no hope! Oh, heavy woe!
When nights fled fast, and days dragged slow.
But joyful now, with eager eye,
Fast to the Promised Land we fly:
    Where in deep mines,
    The treasure shines;
Or down in beds of golden streams,
The gold-flakes glance in golden gleams!
    How we long to sift,
    That yellow drift!
Rivers! Rivers! cease your goings!
    Sand-bars! rise, and stay the tide!
    'Till we've gained the golden flowing;
    And in the golden haven ride!

Herman Melville

Herman Melville was an American novelist, short story writer, and poet of the American Renaissance period. His most famous work, Moby-Dick, was published in 1851 and initially was not a commercial success. Melville's writing draws on his experiences at sea, philosophical musings, and criticisms of society. While he died in relative obscurity, his reputation grew significantly in the 20th century, and he is now considered one of America’s greatest writers. Melville’s other works include Typee, White-Jacket, and Billy Budd.

Herman Melville

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English

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Down through the ancient Strand
The spirit of October, mild and boon
And sauntering, takes his way
This golden end of afternoon,
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Gold

There is a castle on a hill,
    So far into the sky,
That birds that from the valley-beds
    Up to the turrets fly,
Climbing towards the sun can feel
    The clouds go tumbling by.

But always far above the clouds
    The sun is shining there,
It shines for ever on those walls;
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Harvests of never fading fruit
    Are golden everywhere.

Who journeys to that castled crest
    Finds, with his journey done,
All ages and all colours in
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Over the broad weirs of the air
    For ever from the sun.

Two things are silver: flower of plum
    When April yet is cold;
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    Quiet leases hold.
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The Trail of Ninety-Eight

I.

Gold! We leapt from our benches. Gold! We sprang from our stools.
Gold! We wheeled in the furrow, fired with the faith of fools.
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Heard we the clarion summons, followed the master-lure - Gold!

Men from the sands of the Sunland; men from the woods of the West;
Men from the farms and the cities, into the Northland we pressed.
Graybeards and striplings and women, good men and bad men and bold,
Leaving our homes and our loved ones, crying exultantly - "Gold!"

Never was seen such an army, pitiful, futile, unfit;
Never was seen such a spirit, manifold courage and grit.
Never has been such a cohort under one banner unrolled
As surged to the ragged-edged Arctic, urged by the arch-tempter - Gold.

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I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight,
A-purpose to revisit the old claim.
I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate,
And the lads who once were with me in the game.
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Can show a dozen colors in his poke;
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And I'm looking for a grub-stake, and I'm broke.

I strolled up old Bonanza. The same old moon looked down;
The same old landmarks seemed to yearn to me;
But the cabins all were silent, and the flat, once like a town,
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There were piles and piles of tailings where we toiled with pick and pan,
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The Spell Of The Yukon

I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy - I fought it,
I hurled my youth into the grave.
I wanted the gold and I got it -
Came out with a fortune last fall, -
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And somehow the gold isn't all.

No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?)
It's the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it,
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it's a fine land to shun;
Maybe: but there's some as would trade it
For no land on earth - and I'm one.

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The Land Of Love

Hail! voyagers, hail!
Whence e'er ye come, where'er ye rove,
    No calmer strand,
    No sweeter land,
Will e'er ye view, than the Land of Love!

    Hail! voyagers, hail!
To these, our shores, soft gales invite:
    The palm plumes wave,
    The billows lave,
And hither point fix'd stars of light!

    Hail! voyagers, hail!
Think not our groves wide brood with gloom;
    In this, our isle,
    Bright flowers smile:
Full urns, rose-heaped, these valleys bloom.

    Hail! voyagers, hail!
Be not deceived; renounce vain things;
    Ye may not find
    A tranquil mind,
Though hence ye sail with swiftest wings.

    Hail! voyagers, hail!
Time flies full fast; life soon is o'er;
    And ye may mourn,
    That h...

Herman Melville