Maxioms by Thomas Hood
Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold.
Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold.
Spontaneously to God should turn the soul,
Like the magnetic needle to the pole;
But what were read more
Spontaneously to God should turn the soul,
Like the magnetic needle to the pole;
But what were that intrinsic virtue worth,
Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge,
Fresh from St. Andrew's College,
Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!
Art thou that read more
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow
Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread
Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below,
Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow,
Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?
One more unfortunate
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
One more unfortunate
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
