The Death of the Miser.
With clammy hands and lab'ring breath,
His dim eyes glazed by coming death;
Shivering with cold, mere skin and bone,
In a dark room, and all alone,
Without one friend or comfort nigh,
An aged Miser lay to die.
With groan protracted, long and deep,
He wakes from out a troubled sleep;
And o'er his pale and sickly face
A ghastly smile hath left its trace;
Faint, brief, and transient in its stay,
Like sunshine on a winter's day.
Again, the old man smiles, and see!
All shrunk and withered tho' he be,
His wasted form with pain he drags
From 'mong a paltry heap of rags,
On which for years he'd laid his care-worn head,
The wealthy Miser had no other bed.
With weak and trembling step he steals
Across the floor, and lo! he kneels;
But not in prayer—no, 'neath that board
Where he hath knelt, his gold is stored;
And, as with last expiring strength.
He lifts the secret door at length.
And feels (for 'tis too dark to see)
His treasured coins, his ecstasy
Exceeds all bounds, as thus he whispers low,
"'Tis here! 'tis mine! but not a soul must know!"
