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 easychair;

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 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.

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.

I.

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;

On thy black and angry bosom

It will find a surer rest.