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.

THE ROSE:  A BALLAD

I

In his tower sat the poet
  Gazing on the roaring sea,
‘Take this rose,’ he sighed, ’and throw it
  Where there’s none that loveth me. 
On the rock the billow bursteth
  And sinks back into the seas,
But in vain my spirit thirsteth
  So to burst and be at ease. 
Take, O sea! the tender blossom
  That hath lain against my breast;
On thy black and angry bosom
  It will find a surer rest. 
Life is vain, and love is hollow,
  Ugly death stands there behind,
Hate and scorn and hunger follow
  Him that toileth for his kind.’ 
Forth into the night he hurled it,
  And with bitter smile did mark
How the surly tempest whirled it
  Swift into the hungry dark. 
Foam and spray drive back to leeward,
  And the gale, with dreary moan,
Drifts the helpless blossom seaward,
  Through the breakers all alone.

II

Stands a maiden, on the morrow,
  Musing by the wave-beat strand,
Half in hope and half in sorrow,
  Tracing words upon the sand: 
’Shall I ever then behold him
  Who hath been my life so long,
Ever to this sick heart told him,
  Be the spirit of his song? 
Touch not, sea, the blessed letters
  I have traced upon thy shore,
Spare his name whose spirit fetters
  Mine with love forevermore!’
Swells the tide and overflows it,
  But, with omen pure and meet,
Brings a little rose, and throws it
  Humbly at the maiden’s feet. 
Full of bliss she takes the token,
  And, upon her snowy breast,
Soothes the ruffled petals broken
  With the ocean’s fierce unrest. 
’Love is thine, O heart! and surely
  Peace shall also be thine own,
For the heart that trusteth purely
  Never long can pine alone.’

III

In his tower sits the poet,
  Blisses new and strange to him
Fill his heart and overflow it
  With a wonder sweet and dim. 
Up the beach the ocean slideth
  With a whisper of delight,
And the moon in silence glideth
  Through the peaceful blue of night. 
Rippling o’er the poet’s shoulder
  Flows a maiden’s golden hair,
Maiden lips, with love grown bolder,
  Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. 
’Life is joy, and love is power,
  Death all fetters doth unbind,
Strength and wisdom only flower
  When we toil for all our kind. 
Hope is truth,—­the future giveth
  More than present takes away,
And the soul forever liveth
  Nearer God from day to day.’ 
Not a word the maiden uttered,
  Fullest hearts are slow to speak,
But a withered rose-leaf fluttered
  Down upon the poet’s cheek.