He feels the poison of conscience stings,
He fears the robber a bandit brings,
And he creeps to his golden care.
The beggar stopped at the rich man's door,
And paused at the miser's stone,
Yet stayed he not there, for he did not dare
To cross the word "begone!"
The wretch felt not for others' woes,
No soul in his body dwelt;
The trembling sprite took a final flight—