While frantic mothers, pointing wild
To fatherless and starving child,
In accents of deep hate inquire,
For how much dross he sold its sire?
"Take, take, he cried, in tones of wild affright,
These fearful visions from my tortured sight,
I will restore"—! when the stem tones of fate,
Hissed in his ears, the fatal words, Too Late!
With one wild shriek, one loud unearthly yell,
Never again to rise, the wretched Miser fell;
Trembling with illness, howling with dismay,
The spirit of the Miser passed away.
Could not his almost boundless wealth
Purchase one single hour of health?
No! the fell tyrant claims his own,
For all the gold that e*er was known.
Bankrupt in body, as in mind.
He died, and left his gold behind!
Hurrah for the Brave.
In a just cause once more, from old Albion's shore,
Are departing her valiant sons,
As heard from afar are the wild notes of war,
And the boom of the foemen's guns.
