He, who hath promised most, is most revered,
And wears, in proof of skill, a golden beard.
Now gold hath banish'd Numa's simple vase,
And the plain brass of Saturn's frugal days.
Now do we see to precious goblets turn
The Tuscan pitcher, and the vestal urn.
O grovelling souls, which still to earth incline,
From mortal nature judging of divine!
Must man's corruption to the skies be spread,
And godhead be by human passions led?
'Tis sense, gross sense, which clouds our mental sight,
And wraps the soul of man in moral night.
This for mistaken grandeur bids us toil;
This steeps the cassia in the tainted oil;
This makes the fleece its native white forego,
With costly dyes and purple hues to glow:
This seeks the pearl upon the rocky shore,
And strains the metal from the fusing ore :
This still by vice obtains its secret ends,
And this to earth the abject spirit bends.
But you, ye ministers of Heaven, declare,
What gold avails in sacrifice and prayer.
Not more than dolls upon the altar laid,
To Venus offer'd by the full grown maid.
Let me give that, which wealth cannot bestow,
The pomp of riches, nor the glare of show;
Let me give that, which from their golden pot
Messala's proud and blear-eyed race could not :