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.
I am content. In trumpet tones My song let people know; And many a mighty man with thrones And scepter is not so. And if he is I joyful cry, Why, then he's just the same as I.
My motto is--Content with this; Gold--place--I prize not such. That which I have my measure is: Wise men desire not much. Men wish and wish, and have their will, And wish again as hungry still.
And gold and honor are besides A very brittle glass; And time, in his unresting tides Makes all things change and pass: Turns riches to a beggar's dole; Sets glory's race an infant's goal.
Be noble--that is more than wealth; Do right--that's more than place; Then in the spirit there is health And gladness in the face: Then thou art with thyself at one And, no man hating, fearest none.
Mrs. Lofty keeps a carriage, So do I; She has dappled grays to draw it, None have I. She's no prouder of her coachman Than am I With my blue-eyed laughing baby Trundling by. I hide his face, lest she should see The cherub boy and envy me.
Her fine husband has white fingers, Mine has not; He can give his bride a palace, Mine a cot. Hers comes home beneath the starlight, Ne'er cares she; Mine comes in the purple twilight, Kisses me, And prays that He who turns life's sands Will hold his loved ones in his hands.
Mrs. Lofty has her jewels, So have I; She wears hers upon her bosom, Inside I. She will leave hers at Death's portals, By and by; I shall bear the treasures with me When I die-- For I have love, and she has gold; She counts her wealth, mine can't be told.