"Is there no hope?" the sick man said.
The silent doctor shook his head,
And took his leave with unfeigned sorrow
To lose a patient on the morrow.
When left alone, the dying man
"Let me review my life"--began;
"My bargains--well, they were well made;
'Tis the necessity of trade--
Necessity is no transgression.
Now for my portion in possession:
My lands and my securities,
They all are right, in every wise.
If justice to myself and heirs
Have done some hardships unawares,--
Left Smith in jail for debt, or sent
The Browns adrift for unpaid rent,--
I've given alms and helped my friends,
What I propose will make amends:
When I am numbered with the dead,
And when my good bequests are read,
Then will be seen and then be known
Benevolence I have not shown."
The angel, present by his side,
Bade him not in such hopes confide:
"What deed have you done worthy praise?
What orphan blesses, widow prays,
To lengthen out your life one year?
If you will now add deeds to prayer--
Your neighbours want, whilst you abound--
Give me a cheque--five hundred pound."
"Where is the haste?" the sick man whines;
"Who knows--who knows what Heaven designs:
That sum, and more, are in my will;
Perhaps I may recover still."
"Fool!" said the angel: "it is plain
That your great happiness was gain;
And after death would fain atone
By giving what is not your own."
"Whilst there is life, there's hope!" he cried;
"Then why such haste?"--he spoke, and died.