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Why
call the miser miserable? as
I said before: the frugal life is his,
Which in a saint or cynic ever was
The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss
Canonization for the self-same cause,
And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities?
Because, you 'll say, nought calls for such a trial;-
Then there 's more merit in his self-denial.
He is your only poet;- passion, pure
And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays,
Possess'd, the ore, of which mere hopes allure
Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays
Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure;
On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze,
While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dies
Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes.
The lands
on either side are his; the ship
From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads
For him the fragrant produce of each trip;
Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads,
And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip;
His very cellars might be kings' abodes;
While he, despising every sensual call,
Commands- the intellectual lord of all.
Perhaps he
hath great projects in his mind,
To build a college, or to found a race,
A hospital, a church,- and leave behind
Some dome surmounted by his meagre face:
Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind
Even with the very ore which makes them base;
Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation,
Or revel in the joys of calculation.
But whether
all, or each, or none of these
May be the hoarder's principle of action,
The fool will call such mania a disease:-
What is his own? Go- look at each transaction,
Wars, revels, loves- do these bring men more ease
Than the mere plodding through each 'vulgar fraction'?
Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser!
Let spendthrifts' heirs enquire of yours- who 's wiser?
How beauteous
are rouleaus! how charming chests
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins
(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests
Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines,
But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rests
Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines,
Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp:-
Yes! ready money is Aladdin's lamp.
'Love rules
the camp, the court, the grove,'- 'for love
Is heaven, and heaven is love:'- so sings the bard;
Which it were rather difficult to prove
(A thing with poetry in general hard).
Perhaps there may be something in 'the grove,'
At least it rhymes to 'love;' but I 'm prepared
To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental)
If 'courts' and 'camps' be quite so sentimental.
But if Love
don't, Cash does, and Cash alone:
Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides;
Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none;
Without cash, Malthus tells you- 'take no brides.'
So Cash rules Love the ruler, on his own
High ground, as virgin Cynthia sways the tides:
And as for Heaven 'Heaven being Love,' why not say honey
Is wax? Heaven is not Love, 't is Matrimony.
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