The portions that his brothers fed,
While thousands—just and worthy souls—
In aimless anguish cry for bread!
No royal blood by caste or creed,
No pride of place, no gild of gold
Can warm the weak, accursed with cold,
Or light the awful nights of need;
Labor alone can blessings bring
To crown the brows of freedom's brave;
The toiler is the truest king,