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 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; 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 hinds 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 employment 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,

Letty's Globe

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 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.

253

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

LETTY'S GLOBE

OR SOME IRREGULARITIES IN A FIRST LESSON IN GEOGRAPHY

WHEN Letty had scarce passed her third glad year,
And her young artless words began to flow,

One day we gave the child a colored sphere

Of the wide Earth, that she might mark and know,

By tint and outline, all its sea and land.

She patted all the world; old Empires peeped
Between her baby fingers; her soft hand
Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leaped,

And laughed and prattled in her world-wide bliss!
But when we turned her sweet unlearned eye
On our own Isle, she raised a joyous cry,—
"O yes! I see it, Letty's home is there!"
And while she hid all England with a kiss,
Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.

Charles Tennyson Turner [1808-1879]

DOVE'S NEST

"SYLVIA, hush!" I said, "come here,
Come see a fairy-tale, my dear!

Tales told are good, tales seen are best!"
The dove was brooding on the nest

In the lowest crotch of the apple tree.

I lifted her up so quietly,

That when she could have touched the bird

The soft gray creature had not stirred.
It looked at us with a wild dark eye.
But, "Birdie, fly!" was Sylvia's cry,
Impatient Sylvia, "Birdie, fly."

Ah, well: but when I touched the nest,
The child recoiled upon my breast.
Was ever such a startling thing?
Sudden silver and purple wing,
The dove was out, away, across,
Struggling heart-break on the grass.
And there in the cup within the tree
Two milk-white eggs were ours to see.
Was ever thing so pretty? Alack,
"Birdie!" Sylvia cried, come back!"

Joseph Russell Taylor [1868

THE SHEPHERD BOY

LIKE some vision olden

Of far other time,
When the age was golden,

In the young world's prime,

Her hair is like the waving grain
In summer's golden light;
And, best of all, her little soul

Is, like a lily, white.

Gustav Kobbé [1857

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON

AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS

THOU happy, happy elf!

(But stop,-first let me kiss away that tear!) Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite,

With spirits feather-light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin,

(My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air,

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents,-(Drat the boy! There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub,-but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls its tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, cxtracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny.(Another tumble! That's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)