Poetical pieces on various subjects/The Miser, in miniature
THE MISER.
I
THE Miser may in anguish rave,
and say I soon must die;
My goods, my wealth, I soon must leave
For time does quickly fly.
II
But ah! the world still has his heart,
and will not let it go;
He will not give the poor a part
to soften human woe.
III
Or, if a penny he gives one,
his mind feels that a cross;
Alas! he cries, my money's gone,
and what makes up my loss.
IV
He ne'er considers, that on high,
there is a great reward
For those who hear the poor man's cry,
and who his wants regard.
V
He rather will his neighbour taunt,
than aid, when in distress;
Nay, ay the more he is in want,
he feels for him the less
VI
Or, if he lends him to relieve,
out of his golden cask,
His heart cries, while his hand does give,
this is an irksome task
VII
Altho the widow sore complain,
and hungry orphans cry,
His mind is never touch'd with pain,
his feelings dormant lie
VIII
Within his heart he thus does boast,
the poor I do disdain,
What e'er I give to them is lost,
to keep from them is gain
IX
His golden bags he holds them fast,
they are his idols still;
He cannot quit them till the last;
and then against his will
X
From fancied ills, himself to save,
he fondly does them clasp;
The nearer he draws to the grave,
more eager is his grasp
XI
'Tis only when death points his dart,
and strikes the fatal blow,
The miser with his wealth can part;
he then must let it go
XII
But, O! what sorrows him surround,
when parting with the store,
That heart then feels a painful wound
which ne'er felt for the poor.