Listen, white man! Dreamest thou My soul could e’er descend so low, To sell my country, life, and line, For any frail reward of thine? Or break the Sire-of-life’s command, By treading yonder sacred strand? My fare is scant; my roof is low; My country cold, and deep my woe, And every moon that gilds yon hill, Sees growing want and growing ill! But scantier still must be my meal, And keener woes my bosom feel, A sharper winter chill our sky, And louder tempests rage on high, Gaunt famine howl along the plain, And every limb be rack’d with pain, Ere I compromit heaven’s decree, By touching gold, or guiding thee.
Man of the woods! thy fancies seem Like some distemper’d midnight dream; Wild and devoid of reason. Vain Are all thy fears of gold or gain! Not more vain the infant’s call To the starry skies to fall; Or the fear this ocean-lake O’er yon cliffs its way shall take, If a single pebble-trace Circles in its glassy face.
Wealth is a curse, our old men said, [Their wisdom speaks, though they be dead,] Wealth is a curse, and all its trust A breath of wind—a heap of dust: ’Tis here—’tis gone! told or untold— And Mystery is my name for gold. We have been pining, since we knew The wonders ye could make it do— But find with cavil, years, and time, It is the white man’s curse and crime. Of old, our fathers held it good To deal in shells, and rove the wood; And had no fear of scaith or storm, With food, and skins to keep them warm. But ye, with your unhallowed gain, Have burned our forests from the plain, Causing our hope—our game—to fly, And making life itself a lie.
Know! thou man of suff’ring proud, Ills that press, and woes that cloud! Know, that gold doth hold a charm Want to banish, care disarm— To dispel the father’s fears, And suppress kind woman’s tears. Gold ensures the ready meal, And the joys the lib’ral feel, In the palace, or the cot, Fam’d, applauded, or forgot. Oft its peace-inspiring power Gilds fair virtue’s evening hour— Oft, at stern-eyed power’s command, Renovates a drooping land— Opening, by a blest employ, Founts of noble, lasting joy: From its toil-impelling springs, Commerce spreads her daring wings; Art uprears the public dome, Agriculture treads her loom, And a thousand pleasures stand To obey its potent wand. It is not wealth that ills produce— So sages write—but its _abuse_.