Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy;
An' all I know is they was cried
In meetin' come nex' Sunday.
THE HERITAGE.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
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 could 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.
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.
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.
Pages:
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393