Classic Poem

All-WORSHIPP'D Gold! thou mighty mystery!
Say by what name shall I address thee rather,
Our blessing, or our bane? without thy aid,
The gen'rous pangs of pity but distress
The human heart, that fain would feel the bliss
Of blessing others; and, enslav'd by thee,
Far from relieving woes which others feel,
Misers oppress themselves. Our blessing then
With virtue when possess'd; without, our bane!
If in my bosom unperceiv'd there lurk
The deep-sown seeds of av'rice or ambition,
Blame me, ye great ones, (for I scorn your censure)
But let the gen'rous and the good commend me;
That to my Delia I direct them all,
The worthiest object of a virtuous love.
Oh! to some distant scene, a willing exile
From the wild uproar of this busy world,
Were it my fate with Delia to retire;
With her to wander through the sylvan shade,
Each morn, or o'er the moss-imbrowned turf,
Where, blest as the prime parents of mankind
In their own Eden, we would envy none;
But, greatly pitying whom the world calls happy,
Gently spin out the silken thread of life;
While from her lips attentive I receive
The tend'rest dictates of the purest flame,
And from her eyes (where soft complacence sits
Illumin'd with the radiant beams of sense)
Tranquillity beyond a monarch's reach!
Forgive me, heav'n! this only avarice
My soul indulges; I confess the crime,
(If to esteem, to covet such perfection
Be criminal,) Oh grant me Delia! grant me wealth!
Wealth to alleviate, not increase my wants,
And grant me virtue, without which nor wealth
Nor Delia can avail to make me blest.