Spirit Of The Times

THE MISER,
BY CAPTAIN GEORGE W. CUTTER.
An old man sat by a fireless hearth,
Though the night was dark and chill,
And mournfully over the frozen earth
The wind sobbed loud and shrill.
His locks were gray, and his eyes were gray,
And dim, but not with tears;
And his skeleton form had wasted away
With penury, more than years.
A rush-light was casting its fitful glare
O'er the damp and dingy walls,
Where the lizard hath made his slimy lair,
And the venomous spider crawls;
But the meanest thing in this lonesome room
Was the miser all worn and bare,
Where he sat like a ghost in an empty tomb,
On his broken and only chair
He had bolted the window, and barr'd the door,
And every nook he had scann'd;
And felt the fastening o'er and o'er
With his cold and skinny hand;
And yet he sat gazing intently round,
And trembled with silent fear,
And startled and shuddered at every sound
That fell on his coward ear.
"Ha! Ha!" laughed the miser: "I'm safe at last
From this night so cold and drear,
From the drenching rain and driving blast,
With my gold and treasure here.
I am cold and wet with the icy rain,
And my health is bad, 'tis true:
Yet if I should light that fire again
It would cost me a cent or two.
But I'll take a sip of the precious wine.
It will banish my cold and fears;
It was given long since, by a friend of mine—
I have kept it for many years."
So he drew a flask from a moldy nook,
And drank of its ruby tide;
And his eyes grew bright each draught he took,
And his bosom swelled with pride.
"Let me see: let me see!'' said the miser then,
"'Tis some sixty years or more
Since the happy hour when I began
To heap up the glittering store;
And well have I sped with my anxious toil.
As my crowded chest will show;
I've more than would ransom a kingdom's spoil
Or an emperor could bestow.
From the Orient realm I have rubies bright,
And gold from the famed Peru;
I've diamonds would shine the stars of night
And pearls like the morning dew;
And more I'll have, ere the morrow's sun
His rays from the west shall fling:
That widow, to free her prison'd son,
Shall bring me her bridal ring!"
He turned to an old worm-eaten chest,
And cautiously raised the lid,
And then it shone like the clouds of the west,
With the sun in their splendor hid;
And gem after gem, in precious store,
Are raised with exulting smile
And he counted and counted them o'er and o'er,
In many a glittering pile.
Why comes the flush to his pallid brow
While his eyes like his diamonds shine?
Why writhes he thus in such torture now?
What was there in the wine?
His lonely seat he strove to regain;
To crawl to his nest he tried;
But finding his efforts were all in vain,
He clasped his gold, and—died