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?
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;
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;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.
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.
How proud we are! how fond to show
Our clothes, and call them rich and new;
When the poor sheep and silk-worm wore
That very clothing long before.
The tulip and the butterfly
Appear in gayer coats than I;
Let me be dressed fine as I will,
Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.
But let me seek and strive to find
Inward adorning of the mind;
Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace,
These are the robes of richest dress.
This never fades, it ne'er grows old,
Nor fears the rain, nor moth, nor mould;
It takes no spot, but still refines;
The more 't is worn, the more it shines.
In this on earth would I appear,
Then go to heaven and wear it there;
God will approve it in his sight
'T is his own work, and his delight.
WHO Counts himself as nobly born,
Is noble in despite of place,
And honors are but bands to one
Who wears them not with nature's grace.
The prince may sit with clown or churl,
Nor feel his state disgraced thereby ;
But he who has but small esteem
Husbands that little carefully.
Then, be thou peasant, be thou peer,
Count it still more than art thine own;
Stand on a larger heraldry
Than that of nation or of zone.
What though not bid to knightly halls?
Those halls have missed a courtly guest;
That mansion is not privileged,
Which is not open to the best.
THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.
Give honor due when custom asks,
Nor wrangle for the lesser claim;
It is not to be destitute,
To have the thing without the name.
Then, dost thou come of noble blood,
Disgrace not thy good company;
If lowly born, so bear thyself
That gentle blood may come of thee.
Strive not with pain to scale the height
Of some fair garden's petty wall,
But scale the open mountain-side,
Whose summit rises over all.
THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.
"I AM a Pebble, and yield to none!"
Were swelling words of a tiny stone,
"Nor time nor season can alter me;
I am abiding, while ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me long in vain ;
And the tender dew has sought to melt,
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
There's none that can tell about my birth,
For I'm as old as the big, round earth.
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