Henry Moore (1732-1802)

Gold

Almighty gold! whose magic charms dispense

Worth to the worthless, to the graceless grace,

To cowards valour, and to blockheads sense,

And to the withered maid a Hebe's face,

Poor love exiled, thou sitst on Hymen's throne;

Thou rulest the court, the senate, and the bar;

And though the church thy deity disown,

Some whisper thou hast priest and altar there.

All human charities, all laws divine

Deluded mortals offer at thy shrine;

O thou supreme, like fate, to kill or save!

To thy vast empire what is wanting more?

"Nought," sighs Avaro, "had it but the power

To silence conscience, and to bribe the grave."