  "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. |
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