 | Erato, number I |  |
THE USURER'S DEATH.
He was a man of curious workmanship.
His eyes were gray, and small, and deeply set,
And ever glancing round, as though he feared
Some stealthy hand were reaching for his gold!
His lips were thin, and painfully compressed,
As if his lank and roomy mouth contained
The hoarded treasures of his grasping life.
His skeleton hand so firmly clenched a key,
It seemed the fleshless bones would burst the dry
And sallow skin that covered them. His hair
Was grey, and cut unevenly—for he
Had shorn himself for years, to save the mite
The barber would have charged him. Mind in him
Had never taken root; and all he knew,
Or cared, was how to turn to good account
His mortgages—to count his useless gold—
To reap his harvests from the wretchedness
Of those whom the inequitable hand
Of Fortune drove to seek his usury.
His eyes were gray, and small, and deeply set,
And ever glancing round, as though he feared
Some stealthy hand were reaching for his gold!
His lips were thin, and painfully compressed,
As if his lank and roomy mouth contained
The hoarded treasures of his grasping life.
His skeleton hand so firmly clenched a key,
It seemed the fleshless bones would burst the dry
And sallow skin that covered them. His hair
Was grey, and cut unevenly—for he
Had shorn himself for years, to save the mite
The barber would have charged him. Mind in him
Had never taken root; and all he knew,
Or cared, was how to turn to good account
His mortgages—to count his useless gold—
To reap his harvests from the wretchedness
31
Of Fortune drove to seek his usury.
His years were but three score—and yet his frame,
Lean, bowed, and tottering, bore the marks of four;
And all, save his unresting eye, betrayed
That he would shortly mingle with the dust.
His life had been a useless one: to heap
Wealth—which his heartlessness would not enjoy,
Had been his only care. The widow's grief—
The orphan's nakedness—the poor man's woe—
These he could never see; and his dull ear
Could never catch the wailings wretchedness
Wrung from the lowly-lifed. The bitter tears
That sickness or misfortune caused to flow,
Ne'er warmed the ice of his obdurate heart!
Lean, bowed, and tottering, bore the marks of four;
And all, save his unresting eye, betrayed
That he would shortly mingle with the dust.
His life had been a useless one: to heap
Wealth—which his heartlessness would not enjoy,
Had been his only care. The widow's grief—
The orphan's nakedness—the poor man's woe—
These he could never see; and his dull ear
Could never catch the wailings wretchedness
Wrung from the lowly-lifed. The bitter tears
That sickness or misfortune caused to flow,
Ne'er warmed the ice of his obdurate heart!
The ceaseless toil to grasp—the fear to lose
The smallest pittance—watchfulness by day—
And silent hoarding of his gains by night:
Thus years had passed—and the intense pursuit
Of wealth, had worn him to a skeleton.
In a dark corner of his room he lay,
Stretched on a scanty mat of loathsome straw;
And ever-and-anon would raise his head,
And stretch his long and fleshless arm, and try
To draw the iron depot of his wealth
Closer, and closer; but would fail, and fall
Back on his pallet with a bitter groan!
—The hand of Death was on him. He recoiled,
And drew his bony knees up to his chin;
And pressed his sallow hands upon his eyes,
And shuddered, at the summons of the chill,
All-conquering King. His door, long closed, was forced;
The noise aroused him; and with frantic rage
He sprang upon the chest, and seized the key,
And hoarsely shrieking, “Rob me not!”—he died.
The smallest pittance—watchfulness by day—
And silent hoarding of his gains by night:
Thus years had passed—and the intense pursuit
Of wealth, had worn him to a skeleton.
In a dark corner of his room he lay,
Stretched on a scanty mat of loathsome straw;
And ever-and-anon would raise his head,
And stretch his long and fleshless arm, and try
To draw the iron depot of his wealth
Closer, and closer; but would fail, and fall
Back on his pallet with a bitter groan!
—The hand of Death was on him. He recoiled,
And drew his bony knees up to his chin;
And pressed his sallow hands upon his eyes,
And shuddered, at the summons of the chill,
All-conquering King. His door, long closed, was forced;
The noise aroused him; and with frantic rage
He sprang upon the chest, and seized the key,
And hoarsely shrieking, “Rob me not!”—he died.
| Erato, number I | |