Yet ere it ripen, frosts may nip;--and then, we plant again; and yet again.

Deep, Yoomy, deep, true treasure lies; deeper than all Mardi's gold, rooted to Mardi's axis.

But unlike gold, it lurks in every soil,--all Mardi over.

With golden pills and potions is sickness warded off ?--the shrunken veins of age, dilated with new wine of youth?
Will gold the heart-ache cure?
turn toward us hearts estranged?
will gold, on solid centers empires fix?
'Tis toil world-wasted to toil in mines.

Were all the isles gold globes, set in a quicksilver sea, all Mardi were then a desert.