 | UNKNOWN HEIRS. Water-drops |  |
43. UNKNOWN HEIRS.
“He heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall gather them.”
David.
“They toil for heirs, they know not who,
And straight are seen no more.”
And straight are seen no more.”
Watts.
His brow was worn with care. Too deep a thought
Had settled there, for lingering sleep to shed
Its poppy dew unblamed. He said of mirth,
And every social joy,—“They profit not,”
For he had sold his life to gather gain,
And rear a palace for his only son,
That crowds might envy. To his wearied heart
Amid its slavery, still he said, “Plod on!
'Tis for my son.”—But lo!—an icy grasp
O'ermastered him at once, and down he lay
Reluctant and unmourned.
The heir roamed wide
In distant lands, with light and lavish haste
Scattering his spoils.
In the ancestral halls,
Are guests, and banquet-board, and music-strain,
But not for him.—They bear his name no more;
And on his bloated features are the stamp,
Had settled there, for lingering sleep to shed
Its poppy dew unblamed. He said of mirth,
And every social joy,—“They profit not,”
For he had sold his life to gather gain,
And rear a palace for his only son,
That crowds might envy. To his wearied heart
Amid its slavery, still he said, “Plod on!
'Tis for my son.”—But lo!—an icy grasp
O'ermastered him at once, and down he lay
Reluctant and unmourned.
The heir roamed wide
In distant lands, with light and lavish haste
Scattering his spoils.
In the ancestral halls,
Are guests, and banquet-board, and music-strain,
But not for him.—They bear his name no more;
And on his bloated features are the stamp,
251
Of libertine and exile. In the wards
Of foreign hospitals, with parching lip,
He feels the fever-thirst, and none are near
Of all the many servants of his sire,
To give him water. On his tongue there lurks
The drunkard's mutter'd curse, mixed with no word
Of grateful memory for that father's care,
Who toiled so late and rose ere dawn of day
To toil for him the waster, and enrich
Heirs, all unknown.
A mother, strange to say,
Repressed the claims of pity, and withheld
The surplus of her stewardship from God.
The poor, pale sempstress, with her trembling nerves,
And timid voice, perceived the scanty dole
Narrowed and grudged and tardily bestowed,
And wept, despairing, o'er her lonely crust.
The beggar came not twice to that proud door,
Remembering the refusal, couch'd in words
Scornful and sharp. The mission-vessel spread
Its snowy wings, and sought a heathen clime
Without her aid.
And so the yearly gold
Swell'd in its hoard; and to herself she said,
“'Tis for my daughter's use, when I am gone:”
Cheating her vexed soul with empty names
Of fond maternal duty,—veil too thin
To hide her nature from the eye of Heaven.
Of foreign hospitals, with parching lip,
He feels the fever-thirst, and none are near
Of all the many servants of his sire,
To give him water. On his tongue there lurks
The drunkard's mutter'd curse, mixed with no word
Of grateful memory for that father's care,
Who toiled so late and rose ere dawn of day
To toil for him the waster, and enrich
Heirs, all unknown.
A mother, strange to say,
Repressed the claims of pity, and withheld
The surplus of her stewardship from God.
The poor, pale sempstress, with her trembling nerves,
And timid voice, perceived the scanty dole
Narrowed and grudged and tardily bestowed,
And wept, despairing, o'er her lonely crust.
The beggar came not twice to that proud door,
Remembering the refusal, couch'd in words
Scornful and sharp. The mission-vessel spread
Its snowy wings, and sought a heathen clime
Without her aid.
And so the yearly gold
Swell'd in its hoard; and to herself she said,
“'Tis for my daughter's use, when I am gone:”
Cheating her vexed soul with empty names
Of fond maternal duty,—veil too thin
To hide her nature from the eye of Heaven.
252
Oh lady! in the damp and mouldering tomb,
Is there no loop-hole, whence a restless ghost
Might scan thy lofty mansion?
See! behold!
Who sitteth on thy daughter's rich divan,
And in her costly mirrors idly looks?
Who strews the flowers that deck'd her gay parterre,
And revels in her fruits?
A stranger bride
Calls it her home.—Thy daughter is not there.
Her bed is in the clay—and by her side
The babe, whose fleeting life with hers was bought:
While he, who briefly on his finger wore
The circlet of her love, forgetteth her.
Yet for that daughter didst thou grind the poor,
And seal thine ear against the Pagan's moan;
Calling it prudence, and a just regard
To thine own offspring.
'Twas a specious lure!
Oh, mother, did it shut thy soul from Heaven?
Is there no loop-hole, whence a restless ghost
Might scan thy lofty mansion?
See! behold!
Who sitteth on thy daughter's rich divan,
And in her costly mirrors idly looks?
Who strews the flowers that deck'd her gay parterre,
And revels in her fruits?
A stranger bride
Calls it her home.—Thy daughter is not there.
Her bed is in the clay—and by her side
The babe, whose fleeting life with hers was bought:
While he, who briefly on his finger wore
The circlet of her love, forgetteth her.
Yet for that daughter didst thou grind the poor,
And seal thine ear against the Pagan's moan;
Calling it prudence, and a just regard
To thine own offspring.
'Twas a specious lure!
Oh, mother, did it shut thy soul from Heaven?
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