THE IDLER.
If but one spark of honest zeal Flashes to life within his breast— A feeble, flick'ring spark at best; If for a moment he doth feel A dim desire to throw aside The bonds that idleness has wrought, To do, to be the man he ought, The tyrant thing he calls his pride—
The curse of all things good on earth— Takes on the cruel midwife's role, And each high impulse of the soul Is strangled in the hour of birth. "To dig I am ashamed," quoth he; "Mine is the pride of name and race That scorns to fill such humble space— Life's lowly tasks are not for me."
Oh, he can flatter with his tongue, Can toady to the rich and great, Can fawn on those he feels to hate, Until from out his nature's wrung Each shred of honesty and zeal, Each impulse independent, strong, Till truth and honor's but a song, And naught is beautiful or real.
THE TRUST.
We steal the brawn, we steal the brain; The man beneath us in the fight Soon learns how helpless and how vain To plead for justice or for right. We steal the youth, we steal the health, Hope, courage, aspiration high; We steal men's all to make for wealth— We will repent us by and by.
Meantime, a gift will heaven appease— Great God, forgive our charities!
We steal the children's laughter shrill, We steal their joys e'er they can taste, "Why skip like young lambs on a hill? Go, get ye to your task in haste." No matter that they droop and tire, That heaven cries out against the sin, The gold, red gold, that we desire Their dimpled hands must help to win.