Alas for the sailor! alas for the rose! They’ve gone round the world, and this is the close:
“You have stayed too long, you have stayed too long, Had you come before,”—this was all her song,—
“You had found my heart but an empty nest, And ready to welcome its truant guest.
“Go, bring the dead rose to life if you can, But your place is filled by a better man.”
And sadder and wiser he went his way, But he kept that rose to his dying day. Maria L. Eve.
THE HERITAGE.
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 feels 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.