His passion is centred there;
His life, his love, his dearest one,
The joy of his breast is the tinkling tone,
Gold, gold is his fondest fair.
The midnight moon looks lovingly down
On the sleeping laborer's head;
Hushed and still is the busy mill,
And the infant's cradle bed;
But the miser springs, if a footstep rings,
Like a wild beast from his lair;