Though he seemed to live—on the dismal night
When he first to the gold-god knelt.
In a village near, his sister lay
At the door of the demon death;
Starving was written on her brow,
And hot was her fevered breath:
"Oh, give me bread!" in accents low,
Was the burden of her prayer—
"I'm dying, brother!" 'twas even so;
While her eye was glazing, the miser's "No!"