Classic Poem

Dear youth, to hoarded wealth a foe,
Riches with faded lustre glow;
Yes, dim the treasures of the mine,
Unless with temperate use they shine.
This stamps a value on the gold,
So Proculeius thought of old.

Soon as this generous Roman saw
His father's sons proscrib'd by law,
The knight discharg'd a parent's part,
They shar'd his fortune and his heart.
Hence stands consign'd a brother's name
To immortality and fame.

Would you true empire ascertain?
Curb all immoderate lust of gain:
This is the best ambition known,
A greater conquest than a throne.
For know, should Avarice control,
Farewell the triumphs of the soul.

This is a dropsy of the mind,
Resembling the corporeal kind;
For who with this disease are curst,
The more they drink, the more they thirst:
Indulgence feeds their bloated veins,
And pale-eyed, sighing languor reigns.

Virtue, who differs from the crowd,
Rejects the covetous and proud;
Disdains the wild ambitious breast,
And scorns to call a monarch blest;
Labours to rescue truth and sense
From specious sounds, and vain pretence.

Virtue to that distinguish'd few,
Gives royalty, and conquest too;
That wise minority, who own,
And pay their tribute to her throne;
Who view with undesiring eyes,
And spurn that wealth which misers prize.