Classic Poem

The purse-proud fool, who scarcely heeds me now,
Should wither at my look of cold disdain;
Respectful friends should in my presence bow,
And slaves be proud to wear their master's chain—
He who could make them, and unmake again;
A lordly pile should fill the wishful eye
Where now a cottage peeps above the plain,
And stranger passengers, when going by,
Should stop and ask his name, who built yon mansion high.