Classic Poem

Why doth the man of riches grow
To insolence and pride,
To see his wealth and honors flow
With ev'ry rising tide?

Why doth he treat the poor with scorn,
Made of the self-same clay,
And boast, as though his flesh were born
Of better dust than they?

Not all his treasures can procure
His soul a short reprieve,
Redeem from death one guilty hour,
Or make his brother live.

Life is a blessing can't be sold,
The ransom is too high;
Justice will ne'er be brib'd with gold,
That man may never die.

He sees the brutish and the wise,
The tim'rous and the brave,
Quit their possessions, close their eyes,
And hasten to the grave.

Vain are his thoughts, his hopes are lost,
How soon his mem'ry dies!
His name is written in the dust,
Where his own body lies.