The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | III. |
|
|
THE MISER. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
269
THE MISER.
Miser, why countest thou thy treasure,
Thy ill got hoards of paltry gold?
Hast thou a throb of secret pleasure
When conscience whispers soft and slow,
These are the shoals that from oppression flow,
For which thy fame is sold?
Thy ill got hoards of paltry gold?
Hast thou a throb of secret pleasure
When conscience whispers soft and slow,
These are the shoals that from oppression flow,
For which thy fame is sold?
Why dost thou doat on useless ore?
Thou hast no joy in all thy wealth;
Thou never hear'st the simple poor
Bless thy benevolence, and cry,
While gratitude illumes the uprais'd eye,
“Heav'n grant thee years of health!”
Thou hast no joy in all thy wealth;
Thou never hear'st the simple poor
Bless thy benevolence, and cry,
While gratitude illumes the uprais'd eye,
“Heav'n grant thee years of health!”
Why dost thou, in the gloom of night,
While the loud tempest rages wide,
Tremble with horror's cold affright,
And, grasping every shining woe,
To some dark nook with falt'ring footsteps go,
Thy useless heaps to hide?
While the loud tempest rages wide,
Tremble with horror's cold affright,
And, grasping every shining woe,
To some dark nook with falt'ring footsteps go,
Thy useless heaps to hide?
270
Dost thou not hear the thunder's voice,
Reproving heav'n's just vengeance, speak?
Dost thou not hear the fiends rejoice,
While on thy tott'ring roof obscure,
The tears of outrag'd nature whelming pour,
To chill thy wither'd cheek?
Reproving heav'n's just vengeance, speak?
Dost thou not hear the fiends rejoice,
While on thy tott'ring roof obscure,
The tears of outrag'd nature whelming pour,
To chill thy wither'd cheek?
See thy lean frame, thy sunken eyes;
Behold thy victor death, and know,
That when the wretched miser dies,
No bosom pities—on his tomb
No grateful wreath of spring shall ever bloom,
No tear of friendship flow!
Behold thy victor death, and know,
That when the wretched miser dies,
No bosom pities—on his tomb
No grateful wreath of spring shall ever bloom,
No tear of friendship flow!
Forgotten—or, if not, abhorr'd!
Can all thy treasures left behind,
Bid memory thy toil reward,
Or meek religion breathe to heav'n
One pray'r that thou may'st ever be forgiv'n,
O! miscreant unkind!
Can all thy treasures left behind,
Bid memory thy toil reward,
Or meek religion breathe to heav'n
One pray'r that thou may'st ever be forgiv'n,
O! miscreant unkind!
Thou that wouldst live belov'd, caress'd,
Let sweet humanity be giv'n
By thee to e'en a foe distress'd:
For where the child of virtue sighs,
Where genius to thy open threshold flies,
Know, 'tis the path to heav'n!
Let sweet humanity be giv'n
By thee to e'en a foe distress'd:
For where the child of virtue sighs,
Where genius to thy open threshold flies,
Know, 'tis the path to heav'n!
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |