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As Some Lone Miser
As some lone miser, visting his store,
bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o’ver;
Horads after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still;
Thus to my breast alternate passion rise,
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies;
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, admist the scene, to find
Some spot to real happiness consigned,
Where my worn-soul, each wandering hope at rest,
May gather bliss to see his fellows blest.
bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o’ver;
Horads after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still;
Thus to my breast alternate passion rise,
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies;
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, admist the scene, to find
Some spot to real happiness consigned,
Where my worn-soul, each wandering hope at rest,
May gather bliss to see his fellows blest.
- Oliver Goldsmith
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