One lifts his locks, above the rest preferred,
And to the buzzing flies of fashion thrums
A banjo. Lo him follow all the herd.
When Nero's wife put on her auburn wig,
And at the Coliseum showed her head,
The hair of every dame in Rome turned red;
When Nero fiddled all Rome danced a jig.
Novelty sets the gabbling geese agape,
And fickle fashion follows like an ape.
Aye, brass is plenty; gold is scarce and dear;
Crystals abound, but diamonds still are rare.
Is this the golden age, or the age of gold?
Lo by the page or column fame is sold.
Hear the big journal braying like an ass;
Behold the brazen statesmen as they pass;
See dapper poets hurrying for their dimes
With hasty verses hammered out in rhymes:
The Muses whisper--'"Tis the age of brass."
Workmen are plenty, but the masters few--
Fewer to-day than in the days of old.
Rare blue-eyed pansies peeping pearled with dew,
And lilies lifting up their heads of gold,
Among the gaudy cockscombs I behold,
And here and there a lotus in the shade;
And under English oaks a rose that ne'er will fade.
Fair barks that flutter in the sun your sails,
Piping anon to gay and tented shores
Sweet music and low laughter, it is well
Ye hug the haven when the tempest roars,
For only stalwart ships of oak or steel
May dare the deep and breast the billowy sea
When sweeps the thunder-voiced, dark hurricane,
And the mad ocean shakes his shaggy mane,
And roars through all his grim and vast immensity.
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