What doth the poor man's son inherit ? What doth the poor man's son inherit ? What doth the poor man's son inherit ? To make the outcast bless his door; O rich man's son! there is a toil But only whiten, soft white hands; 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 That hath lain against my breast; It will find a surer rest. Ugly death stands there behind, And with bitter smile did mark II Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow, Tracing words upon the sand: "Shall I ever then behold him Who hath been my life so long, Ever to this sick heart fold him, Be the spirit of his song? Touch not, sea, the blessed letters I have traced upon thy shore, Spare his name whose spirit fetters Mine with love forevermore!" Swells the tide and overflows it, But, with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken With the ocean's fierce unrest. "Love is thine, O heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone.” III In his tower sits the poet, Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim. The death-watch ticked behind the wall, A wildness rushing suddenly, 'Tis drear such moonless nights as these, Thy shroud is all of snowy white, The senses and the spirit, The silence bursts apart, 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 "God! I thank thee," said the Prophet; "Hard of heart and blind was I, Looking to the holy mountain For the gift of prophecy. "Still thou speakest with thy children Freely as in eld sublime; Humbleness, and love, and patience, Still give empire over time. "Had I trusted in my nature, And had faith in lowly things, "But I looked for signs and wonders, “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, SONG O MOONLIGHT deep and tender, O elm-leaves dark and dewy, O river, dim with distance, O stars, ye saw our meeting, O happy night, deliver Her kisses back to me, SONNETS I TO A. C. L. A. C. L. was Mrs. Anna Cabot Lowell (Mrs. Charles Lowell), the wife of the eldest brother of the poet, and mother of those gallant brothers, Charles and James, who fell in the war for the union, and to whom Lowell refers in the tenth of the second series of Biglow Papers. THROUGH suffering and sorrow thou hast passed To show us what a woman true may be: They have not taken sympathy from thee, Nor made thee any other than thou wast, |