Part 18 (1/2)
--_Bryant._
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 banks 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 hands 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 enjoyment 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 s.h.i.+ne, 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 G.o.d, Prove t.i.tle to your heirs.h.i.+p vast By record of a well-filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.
--_Lowell._
ELEGY
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The c.o.c.k's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their st.u.r.dy stroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.