The Poet's Wish

When I look round upon the goodly crowd Who mingle on the surface of the earth, And think scarce one would give a pause to mirth, Were I to-morrow stiffening in my shroud,― It almost startles me to find that I Am bound to life by links so passing few, Even in my prime, when every pulse beats high, And much of nature still is fresh and new. I am a miser in my wish to hoard A mint of deep affections, for to me The love of others is the golden key That doth unlock the shrine where lieth stored My hope of happiness. Let glory go! But, Oh! above my bier let many a fond tear flow!