The casements, old and creaking,
Shook in the angry blast;
And the pale, thin face grew paler,
As the shrieking winds went past;
For hovering fiends seemed clutching
His treasures from his grasp,
And unseen fingers tight'ning
On his throat their icy clasp.
Again the strong wind rattled
The broken window-pane,
And the dying taper wavered
In the rude blast yet again—
For one brief instant wavered,
Then paled its sickly light,
And the shuddering wretch was shrouded
In impenetrable night.
The dull, grey light of morning
Illumed the mountain-height,
And Earth lay, cold and shiv'ring,
In the blanched, autumnal light,
But a sunbeam struggled faintly
Through the Miser's broken shed,
And lit the pale, set features
Of the still, unshrouded dead.
For there, alone, and trembling
With the horrors of affright,
He had met the king of terrors
'Mid the darkness of the night;
And with gold enough to satiate
A monarch's haughty pride,
In fear, and rags, and misery
Of want the wretch had died!
BROKEN
I.
Broken!
It's only a ring—a plain, old ring,
Worn down to a thread almost—
Fling it away—the useless thing!
What value now can it boast?—
Fling it away!
Yet stay!—oh stay
Ere you cast it away!
There's a tale of the vanished years
That ever will cling,
To that broken ring,
That hallows and endears—
Oh stay!
In vain!—in vain!—What matters it now
That tenderest memories cling
To that thread of gold so wasted and old—
Who cares for a broken ring?—
Fling it away!
II.
Broken!
It's only a vase—an old, stone vase—
Ancient and out of style—
That has stood for years in the chimney place,
Provoking many a smile—
Throw it away!
Yet stay!—that vase
Held honored place
In the sight of prince and peer
And the flowers it held
Were gathered of old
By the lovely and the dear!—
Oh stay!
In vain!—In vain!—What matters it now
How honored was once its place!
It is broken, and old, and the hearts are cold
That cherished the old stone vase—
Throw it away!