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 blessed 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.
THE MISER AND PLUTUS (A FABLE).
The wind was high, the window shakes;
With sudden start the Miser wakes;
Along the silent room he stalks;
Looks back and trembles as he walks!
Each lock and ev'ry bolt he tries,
In ev'ry creek and corner pries;
Then opens the chest with treasure stor'd,
And stands in rapture o'er his hoard.
But now, with sudden qualms possest,
He wrings his hands, he beats his breast;
By conscience stung, he wildly stares,
And thus his guilty soul declares.
Had the deep earth her stores confin'd, This heart had known sweet peace of mind. But virtue's sold! Good Gods! what price Can recompense the pangs of vice?
O bane of good! seducing cheat!
Can man, weak man, thy pow'r defeat?
Gold banish'd honour from the mind,
And only left the name behind;
Gold sow'd the world with ev'ry ill
Gold taught the murderer's sword to kill:
'Twas gold instructed coward hearts
In treachery's more pernicious arts;
Who can recount the mischiefs o'er?
Virtue resides on earth no more!
He spoke and sighed: In angry mood,
Plutus, his god, before him stood.
The Miser, trembling lock'd his chest ;
The vision frown'd, and thus address'd:
Whence is this vile ungrateful rant,
Each sordid rascal's daily cant?
Did I, base wretch, corrupt mankind !
The fault is in thy rapacious mind.
Because my blessings are abus'd,
Must I be censur'd, curs'd, accus'd?
E'en virtue's self by knaves is made.
A cloak to carry on the trade ;
And pow'r (when lodg'd in their possession)
Grows tyranny, and rank oppression.
Thus, when the villain crams his chest,
Gold is the canker of the breast;
'Tis av'rice, insolence, and pride;
And ev'ry shocking vice beside ;
But when to virtuous hands 'tis given,
It blesses like the dews of heaven;
Like heaven, it hears the orphan's cries,
And wipes the tears from widows' eyes.
Their crimes on gold shall misers lay,
Who pawn'd their sordid souls for pay?
Let bravoes then (when blood is spilt)
Upbraid the passive sword with guilt.
98. MONEY, GOLD, RICHES, WEALTH.
A man without money is like a bird without wings, or a ship without sails.
A light purse is a heavy curse.
Never make money at the expense of your reputation.
Count like jews, and agree like brothers.
Think neither too much nor too little of money. It is a good servant but a bad master.
Make Money thy drudge, for to follow thy work,
Make Wisdom Comptroller, and Order thy clerk :
Provision Cater, and Skill to be cook,
Make steward of all, pen, ink, and thy book.
Those who have money
Are troubled about it,
Those who have none
Are troubled without it.
Whereunto is money good?
Who has it not wants hardihood,
Who has it has much trouble and care,
Who once has had it has despair.
Would you know what money is, Go borrow some.
Every man will be thy friend
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
Want of money, the worst of wants.
Want sense and the world will o'erlook it,
Want feeling-It will find some excuse;
But if the world knows you want money,
You're certain to get its abuse.
The wisest advice in existence
Is ne'er on its kindness to call;
The next way to get its assistance
Is-show you don't need it at all.
Oh what a world of vile ill-favour'd faults
Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!
-SHAKESPEARE.
A twelve-months ago I was plain as could be,-
There was not a charm or a beauty in me;
My age was eighteen, I was merry as young,
But wisdom or wit, never haunted my tongue.
Mine eyes had no lustre, my cheeks had no bloom,
My steps had no grace, and my sighs no perfume
The reason I'll tell, it was much to endure,--
All this only happen'd because I was poor.
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