Page:Poems Cook.djvu/46

Sad is the lot of those who pine
In the gloomy depths of the precious mine;
But they toil not so hard in gaining the ore,
As the miser in guarding the glittering store.
He counts the coin with a feasting eye;
And trembles the while if a step come nigh:
He adds more wealth; and a smiling trace
Of joy comes over his shrunken face.

He seeks the bed where he cannot rest;
Made close beside his idol chest:
He wakes with a wilder'd, haggard stare,
For he dreams a thief is busy there:
He searches around-the bolts are fast;
And the watchmen of the night go past.
His coffers are safe; but there's fear in his brain,
And the miser cannot sleep again.

He never flings the blessèd mite
To fill the orphan child with delight.
The dog may howl, the widow may sigh;
He hears them not—they may starve and die.
His breast is of ice, no throbbing glow
Spreads there at the piercing tale of woe;
All torpid and cold, he lives alone
In his heaps, like the toad embedded in stone.

Death comes—but the miser's friendless bier
Is free from the sobbing mourner's tear;
Unloved, unwept, no grateful one
Will tell of the kindly deeds he has done.
Oh never covet the miser's fame;
'Tis a cheerless halo that circles his name;
And one fond heart that will truly grieve,
Will outweigh all the gold we can leave.

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