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A heritage, it seems to me,
What doth the poor man's son inherit?
To make the outcast bless his door;
O rich man's son ! there is a toil
That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil,
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 title to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.
THE ROSE: A BALLAD.
In his tower sat the poet
Where there 's none that loveth me.
So to burst and be at ease.