Poetical pieces on various subjects/The Miser, in miniature

by John Maxwell

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THE MISER.

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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.