"To be frugal is wise;" and this lesson of truthShould 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 oldSo eagerly clutch at the shining gold—Oh! can it be good that a man should craveThe dross of the world—so nigh his grave?
Sad is the lot of those who pineIn 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 traceOf 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 blessèd miteTo 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 glowSpreads there at the piercing tale of woe;All torpid and cold, he lives aloneIn his heaps, like the toad embedded in stone.
Death comes—but the miser's friendless bierIs free from the sobbing mourner's tear;Unloved, unwept, no grateful oneWill 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.
