Classic Poem

How much there is within this rich abode,
Thou pass'st uncared for by and call'st it thine;
Forever straying from the narrow road,
'Mid heaven's own joys, yet still for heaven to pine;
The light that comes to thee thou had'st before;
The gold shines not within the miser's hand,
But he already sighs to have yet more;
What thou just gave him,—'twas his house and land;
Turn where thou wilt,—alas! where canst thou turn,
Who goest before as though already there;—
Turn where thou wilt, thou dost each blessing spurn;
Who cares for nought how little feels he care,
Though all the day sweet angels hovering near,
Are sent his onward path with their glad news to cheer.