Classic Poem

What , though no hoarded heap be mine,
No glittering stock of shining ore,
It surely can't be deemed a crime,
To love thee, charming Gwen, though poor.

Though Fortune with a niggard hand,
The gold that wins the world denies;
Art thou to join the selfish band,
Be money's mercenary prize?

Ah no! let Love and Nature speak,
Thy heart to tenderness resign;
For this, the fond return I make,
The love that overflows in mine.

One gracious look, dear Angel, deign,
From eyes that heaven's bright stars outshine;
To me thy smiles more wealth contain,
Than ever filled the richest mine.

Let me engross the attracting blaze,
The smiles that half the world bewitch;
On me alone, sweet Syren, gaze,
And I alone will then be rich.

No Miser yet in all his books,
Has found a name for wealth like this;
But wiser I in Nature's looks,
Will henceforth call the treasure bliss.