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The Miser
How much there is within this rich abode,Thou pass'st uncared for by and call'st it thine;
Forever straying from the narrow road,
'Mid heaven's own joys, yet still for heaven to pine;
The light that comes to thee thou had'st before;
The gold shines not within the miser's hand,
But he already sighs to have yet more;
What thou just gave him,—'twas his house and land;
Turn where thou wilt,—alas! where canst thou turn,
Who goest before as though already there;—
Turn where thou wilt, thou dost each blessing spurn;
Who cares for nought how little feels he care,
Though all the day sweet angels hovering near,
Are sent his onward path with their glad news to cheer.
Poem No. 194a; late 1839?
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