Madmoments: or First Verseattempts By a Bornnatural. Addressed to the Lightheaded of Society at Large, by Henry Ellison |
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 | Madmoments: or First Verseattempts |  |
WEALTHSNOTHINGNESS IN ITSELF.
Deem not the Richman envyworthy 'tillThou know'st well what he is in his own heart!
For Riches themselves do not make us rich,
Wealth itself teaches not the Use of Wealth,
It bringeth no such Heritage, else were
It Wealth indeed, and worthy of the Name.
All Blessings of real Value still must be
Earned by ourselves, and not inherited
At others' Hands: our Labour makes their Worth,
They are the Labour itself, and the more
Of Sacrifice there be, the more divine
Their Nature: and in order to reward
Us fitly, they are felt to be so most,
When we have disciplined and schooled our Souls
To deem them cheaply bought at any Price,
By any sacrifice of vulgar Goods.
'Till toiling towards some seeming distant Goal,
Some Blessing which we fancy different from
The Labour leading to it, with Surprize
And Joy we find the very Toil become
The Blessing which we sought for! while the Bad
Believe that Labour to be bitter Pain:
And so it is, until we inly feel
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And asking nothing at our Father's Hands,
Beceive the Fullness of Reward from that
Which promised least of all! then Poorman be
Thou of good Cheer: if thou wilt but think so,
Thou art not poor: the proudest Monarch on
The Earth is not so rich, nor can he give
So generously! when from thy Daysbread
Thou giv'st a Mouthfull to the hungry Child
That begs of thee, thou givest more than Kings,
Who scatter thousands which they do not miss,
Nor know the Use of! does the Flower smell
Sweeter, or show more lovely to the Eyes
Of sated Wealth, than unto thine, when for
Thy Daughter's Hair, upon the Sabbathmorn,
Thou pluck'st them from the Rosebush twin'd around
Thy Cottagedoor, the Growth of thine own Hand?
My Friend, their perfume is so sweet e'en by
That very Sweat, that low, despisëd Toil,
Wherewith thou earn'st thy bread: for when God gives
A Blessing, that can make Life's seeming Bitter
So sweet, can make its very wants and needs
A Source of Overwealth, of truest wealth:
A Source of Virtues, which bloom forth like flowers,
Filling all round with sweetness and perfume,
And scattering on this coarse, familiar Earth
Seeds to renew, and thousandfold, the Joys
Which they first yielded: Joys of Paradise!
'Till e'en the sharp Flints 'neath thy naked feet
Are for thy Faith's sake turned to softest Down,
And o'er the hard stone upon which thou lay'st
Thy weary head, an Angel spreads one wing
To pillow thee, as soft as ever Babe
Was cradled on his Mother's beating Heart,
And with the other screens thy bare, poor brow,
And lightly touching with his divine lips
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The Blessedness, the Peace, which fills his own!
| Madmoments: or First Verseattempts | |