Stones from The Quarry | ||
66
THE POET'S TEST.
For a vile mess of pottage sell not thouThy birthright, heir of treasures beyond kings;
Crawl not thou, to whom God hath given wings.
Serve not the World, nor moth and rust allow
To enter in and spoil, thou on whose brow
God hath writ “immortality,” which clings
Thro' true and false to thee: in the one, stings
Of scorpions; in the other, good men's now
And God's “Well done!” hereafter. Wealth seek not;
It is to thee at best a golden chain;
And fetters, tho' of gold, thy soul hath got;
Thou'st gained a loss, and lost a priceless gain!
Thou canst not god and Mammon both retain;
One must thou serve, or both will cross thy lot.
Stones from The Quarry | ||