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 learned of being poor. Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his A heritage, it seems to me, 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 A heritage, it seems to be, me. On the rock the billow bursteth It will find a surer rest. Ugly death stands there behind, Hate and scorn and hunger follow Him that toileth for his kind." Forth into the night he hurled it, And with bitter smile did mark How the surly tempest whirled it Swift into the hungry dark. Foam and spray drive back to leeward, And the gale, with dreary moan, Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, Through the breakers all alone.. In his tower sits the poet, Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth With a whisper of delight, And the moon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night. Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden lips, with love grown bolder, Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. "Life is joy, and love is power, Death all fetters doth unbind, Strength and wisdom only flower When we toil for all our kind. Hope is truth,-the future giveth More than present takes away, And the soul for ever liveth Nearer God from day to day." Not a word the maiden uttered, Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet's cheek. Thy little heart, that hath with love Grown coloured like the sky above, On which thou lookest ever,Can it know All the woe Of hope for what returneth never, Out on it! no foolish pining Dims thine eye, Or for the stars so calmly shining; Like thee let this soul of mine Take hue from that wherefor I long, Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, Not satisfied with hoping-but divine. Violet! dear violet! Thy blue eyes are only wet With joy and love of Him who sent thee, And for the fulfilling sense The stars came out; and one by one, Each angel from his silver throne Looked down and saw what I had done : I dared not hide me, Rosaline! Against me to God's quiet sky, I waited with a maddened grin That, if the very corpse had screamed, The sound like sunshine glad had streamed Through that dark stillness, Rosaline! And then, amid the silent night, My doomed heart over, Rosaline! Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes, Wherein such blessed memories, As thine, true soul, could never die, And with meau clay in churchyard lie, Would it might be so, Rosaline! A REQUIEM. AY, pale and silent maiden, A breath of. summer wind. B |