Classic Poem

IF I'D A HUNDRED MILLIONS

If I'd a hundred millions —
Just think! a hundred millions! —
What wouldn't I do — what couldn't I do —
If I'd a hundred millions?
From every forest's finest tree
My many-gabled house should be;
With silver threads from golden looms
Should be attired my palace-rooms;
My loaded table have the best
Of all the East and all the West;
My bed should be a daintier thing
Than ever sheltered queen or king;
What wouldn't I do,
What couldn't I do,
If I'd a hundred millions?

If I'd a hundred millions —
A good, square hundred millions —
With gratefulness my friends should bless
Me and my hundred millions!
None that had e'er befriended me
But should a landed owner be;
Who kindly words of me had told,
Should find their silver turned to gold;
And he who did but just advance
The sunbeam of a friendly glance
In my affliction's cloudy day
Should have rich, unexpected pay.
What wouldn't I do,
What couldn't I do,
If I'd a hundred millions?

If I'd a hundred millions —
Just think! a hundred millions! —
How many coals on hostile souls
I'd heap with all my millions!
No enemy that earned my hate
Should for a fiery guerdon wait;
With roses sweet I'd twine him o'er
Until the thorns should prick him sore
(How much of credit may be claimed
For sweetly making foes ashamed
I do not know; it may depend
On how much true love we extend);
But love outpoured
I could afford,
If I'd a hundred millions!

An honest hundred millions —
Just think! a hundred millions!
The poor should bless the strange success
That gave me all those millions!
I'd slaughter every hungry wight
Within the circle of my sight,
And resurrect him with such food
As should go far to make him good;
No poor-house but must bow its head
And gaze at cottage walls instead;
And hungry paupers soon should see
A year of genuine jubilee,
Nought should alloy
Their perfect joy,
That could be saved by millions!

Just think! a hundred millions! —
The care of all those millions?
And after all, what would befall
A life with all those millions?
Would not the lucre clog my brain,
And make me hard and cold and vain?
Might not my treasure win my heart,
And make me loath with it to part?
How could I tell, by mortal sign,
Betwixt my money's friends and mine?
And then, the greed, and strife, and curse,
The world brings round a princely purse:
Perhaps my soul,
Upon the whole,
Is best without those millions!