Part 1 — 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. 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! What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit? A patience learnt of being poor; Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it: A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the Outcast bless his door.

Oh! 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.

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Oh! 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! Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both children of the same great God! Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-spent past. A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.