Poem by Henry Abbey

The Miser

'Tis said, that when he saw his child,
And saw the proof that she was his,
The first in many a year he smiled,
And pressed upon her brow a kiss.

In both his hands her hand he bound,
And led her gayly through his place.
He said the dead years circled round,
Hers was so like her mother's face.

He scarcely moves him from her side—
Her every hour with joy beguiles.
To make the gulf between us wide,
He acts the miser of her smiles.

He brings her presents rich and rare—
Wrought gold by cunning hands impearled,
Round opals that with scarlet glare,
The lightning of each mimic world.

1. Odyle
2. In Memory of General Grant
3. The Roman Sentinel
4. On a Great Warrior
5. The Vendor of Violets

Anonymous The Miser ("Pinchall, possessing heaps of wealth")

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