THE HERITAGE.

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THE HERITAGE.

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:

A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

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:
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants;

His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair:
A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art:
A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things;
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit;
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labour 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, learn'd of being poor;
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it;
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door:

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

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:

THE HERITAGE.

A heritage, it seems to me,

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.

LOWELL.

95

A PARABLE.

WORN and footsore was the prophet
When he gained the holy hill;
"God has left the earth," he murmured,
"Here His presence lingers still.

"God of all the olden prophets!
Wilt Thou speak with men no more?
Have I not as truly served Thee
As Thy chosen ones of yore?

"Hear me, guider of my fathers,
Lo! a humble heart is mine;
By Thy mercy I beseech Thee,
Grant Thy servant but a sign!"

Bowing then his head, he listened
For an answer to his prayer:
No loud burst of thunder followed,
Not a murmur stirred the air;

But the tuft of moss before him
Opened, while he waited yet,

And from out the rock's hard bosom
Sprang a tender violet.

A PARABLE.

"God, I thank Thee!" said the prophet; "Hard of heart and blind was I, Looking to the holy mountain

For the gifts of prophecy.

"Still Thou speakest with Thy children Freely, as in eld sublime;

Humbleness, and love, and patience

Shall give empire over time.

Had I trusted in my nature,

And had faith in lowly things,

Thou Thyself would'st then have sought me
And set free my spirit's wings.

"But I looked for signs and wonders

That o'er men should give me sway;

Thirsting to be more than mortal,
I was even less than clay.

"Ere I entered on my journey,
As I girt my loins to start,
Ran to me my little daughter,
The beloved of my heart;—

"In her hand she held a flower,
Like to this as like may be,

Which, beside my very threshold,

She had plucked and brought to me."

H

LOWELL.

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