Classic Poem

What lightly comes, they say, will lightly go,
For ill-earn'd wealth will waste as melting snow,
And faithful labor's hard-earn'd mite will win
More happiness than all the hoards of sin.
So Wingreed gave his ward, with all the land
So mis-bestow'd, his worthless daughter's hand:
And he must needs, as if his few small grounds
Were some vast manor, keep his pack of hounds:
And when the bow-neck'd steed that he bestrode
Pranc'd forth with high-toss'd head upon the road,
His upcast face no more look'd down to greet
His lowly friends that met him on their feet.
And where strong drinks, all reeking with their damp
Hot vapor, sparkled to the far-spent lamp,
He linger'd through the waning night, to steep
His giddy brain in late-sought morning sleep;
Till landless, friendless, and with houseless head,
He went to earn or beg his daily bread.
And Wingreed, once benighted on the road
Beside the land that he had wrong bestow'd,
Saw walking there, with faces silver-bright,
Two angels, clad in filmy robes of white,
As thin as gauzy night-clouds, streaming fast
Before the moon upon a hasty blast;
And straining o'er the ground, with shining hands,
A fiery chain, as if to halve the lands.
And from that awful night, his neighbours say,
He never knew another happy day.
All this I know for truth; but what befel
Poor Erwin, some of you may better tell.