THE MISER

 

THE MISER

by ELIZA COOK  

To be frugal is wise; 'and this lesson of truth 
Should ever be preach'd in the ears of youth. 

The young must be curb'd in their spendthrift haste, 

Lest meagre want should follow on waste: 

But to see the hand that is wither'd and old 

So eagerly clutch at the shining gold- 

Oh! can it be good that man should crave 

The dross of the world- so nigh his grave? 

Sad is the lot of those who pine 

In the gloomy depths of the precious mine; 

But they toil not so hard, in gaining the ore, 

As the miser in guarding the glittering store. 

He counts the coin, with a feasting eye, 

And trembles the while if a step come nigh: 

He adds more wealth; and a smiling trace 

Of joy comes over his shrunken face. 

He seeks the bed, where he cannot rest, 

Made close beside his idol chest; 

He wakes with a wilder'd haggard stare,

 For he dreams a thief is busy there; 

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 friendly 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 that we can leave. 

ELIZA COOK 

References:

Chatterbox 1877