Classic Poem

Thy satire neither old nor stale is,
Tho' many an age hath passed away,—
Decimus Junius Juvenalis,
Thou should'st be living here to-day!
The God men still with prayer importune
In every Christian temple stands,—
To Plutus and his harlot Fortune
We kneel with largess-seeking hand!

Tho' eighteen centuries have departed
This world of ours is just the same
As when, O Censor single-hearted,
You lookt on Life's Circensian game!
Here is the City, as you drew it
In those forgotten day of old!
The mob of Remus, as you knew it
When the slain Christ was scarcely cold!

And Fame still tells the same old story
Of idols whom the mob adore,—
A little reign, a little glory,
And lo, Sejanus topples o'er!
The statue made of mighty metal
Melts in the furnace, and alas!
Mere basin, frying-pan, and kettle
Are fashioned from the head of brass!

All power, all pride, are only trouble,
Honour and glory cease to shine,
Wisdom's a wig, and Fame a bubble,
But Gold is evermore divine,—
Minted tenfold it never ceases
To gladden mortal days and nights,
Surviving all the world's caprices
And buying all the world's delights!

No wonder, therefore, that we pray for it,
Ev'n as ye Romans prayed of old,—
Waving all other gods away for it,
Selling our very souls for Gold;—
The one glad thing that never stale is,
The one thing sure when all is told,
Is what you cursed, my Juvenalis,
When the slain Christ was scarcely cold!