Classic Poem

A MISER happy only in his gold,
Who kept it, not for use , but to behold ;
With age and trouble, pain and weakness spent,
Fearing no med'cine could his death prevent,
His dear-lov'd treasure was resolv'd to hide,
So buried it near to a fountain's side.
" No future heir, " said he, " shall this " enjoy,
" Nor in extravagance my coin employ.
" No, I will hide it safely in this ground,
" Here to remain; or, if I live, be found. "
He said, and plac'd it deep beneath the sod,
Then impiously wrote, " Here rests my " god . "
His next of kin, by chance, observing nigh,
With patience stay'd, till sick and like to die
The Miser lay; then to the spot he crept,
Where in obscurity the treasure slept.
" Pity, " he cried, " this gold should thus " be loft,
" Which to acquire has so much labour " cost! "
So took it up, and wrote in wanton play,
" Your god has made him wings, and flown away. "
Recovering from his sickness, to the spot
The uncle came, and soon perceiv'd his lot;
Yet would the youth the pelf have safe restor'd,
But destiny deny'd the precious hoard:
A gang of thieves had stol'n it in the night,
While pin'd the Miser for his dear delight,
Relaps'd, he felt all mis'ry could impart,
And died of what men call a broken heart
His god thus gone, to none could he apply,
But, having liv'd a wretch, a wretch must die .