Classic Poem

A MISER joined a funeral train,
With flinty eye,
And thought, " Yon wretch, whose every vein
I drained till naught was left to gain,
Did well to die. "

He passed the cypress-sentried gate
With footstep firm;
Nay, lighter trod, because elate
" That his was not the lonely fate
Of that poor worm. "

He stood the yawning grave beside,
All undismayed,
While Delver and Sacristan vied
Which first the coffin's lid should hide
With eager spade.

Then, homeward sauntering, he passed
His father's tomb,
And felt his pulses throbbing fast,
In memory of his joy when last
He, through its gloom,

Saw glittering the radiant hoard,
His lifelong lust,
Forgetful that, though now its lord,
He soon must by his sire be stored,
And waste to dust.

But when, at home, to meet him, stole
The meek-faced lad
Into whose lap must one day roll
The wealth for which he'd pawned his soul,
His brow grew sad.