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The rich man's son inherits lands,
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;
The rich man's son inherits cares ;
The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares,
And soft white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serve his turn;
His stomach craves for dainty fare ;
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
King of two hands, he does his part
useful toil and art;
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
A patience learned of being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door;
That with all others level stands;
But only whiten, soft white hands,
This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to be, Worth being rich to hold in fee. O, poor man's son! scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great ;
Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.
Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last; Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove to your heirship vast
By record of a well-filled past ;
THE ROSE: A BALLAD.
In his tower sat the poet
Gazing on the roaring sea, “ Take this rose,” he sighed, " and throw it
Where there's none that loveth me. On the rock the billow bursteth
And sinks back into the seas, But in vain my spirit thirsteth
So to burst and be at ease. Take, O, sea! the tender blossom
That hath lain against my breast ;
It will find a surer rest.
Ugly death stands there behind,
Him that toileth for his kind.” Forth into the night he hurled it,
And with bitter smile did mark
Swift into the hungry dark.
And the gale, with dreary moan,
Through the breakers all alone.
Stands a maiden, on the morrow,
Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow,
Tracing words upon the sand: 6 Shall I ever then behold him
Who hath been my life so long, -
Be the spirit of his song?
I have traced upon thy shore,
Mine with love forevermore!”
But, with omen pure and meet,
Humbly at the maiden's feet.
And, upon her snowy breast,
With the ocean's fierce unrest.
Peace shall also be thine own,
Never long can pine alone.”
In his tower sits the poet,
Blisses new and strange to him
With a wonder sweet and dim.
With a whisper of delight,
Through the peaceful blue of night.
Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden-lips, with love grown bolder,
Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare.
Death all fetters doth unbind,
When we toil for all our kind.