 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
THE VERY RICH.
The richest are but stewards for the rest,
When on themselves they take the management
And trouble of their wealth: by them but spent,
Enjoyed by others, with more peace and zest;
Free from the cares which the possessor's breast
Annoy: the envy and the discontent:
The litigation, and the distrained rent,
The waste, remediless though manifest.
And, when they on themselves take not the care
Of their own wealth, a greater care it grows;
For they are robbed by parasites, and bear
Their treasure in distrust, with gilded woes
Bemocked at heart—so have they far less share
Than he who little has, but its use knows!
When on themselves they take the management
And trouble of their wealth: by them but spent,
Enjoyed by others, with more peace and zest;
Free from the cares which the possessor's breast
Annoy: the envy and the discontent:
The litigation, and the distrained rent,
The waste, remediless though manifest.
And, when they on themselves take not the care
Of their own wealth, a greater care it grows;
For they are robbed by parasites, and bear
Their treasure in distrust, with gilded woes
Bemocked at heart—so have they far less share
Than he who little has, but its use knows!
52
The Duke of Devonshire, at cost immense,
Maintains his princely gardens for the use
Of his head-gardener: who doth amuse
Himself therein, and, at the Duke's expense,
Joys to the full, each day, his every sense;
The true possessor of all that he views:
Who calls it his, with princely revenues
Of more than gold, of high intelligence,
Of beauty and of pleasure! without cost
All his: nay, he is paid for having what
Unto the Duke himself is almost lost!
Such compensations has Man's inward lot,
And richest those who énjoy, not have, most;
So outward difference of rank weighs not!
Maintains his princely gardens for the use
Of his head-gardener: who doth amuse
Himself therein, and, at the Duke's expense,
Joys to the full, each day, his every sense;
The true possessor of all that he views:
Who calls it his, with princely revenues
Of more than gold, of high intelligence,
Of beauty and of pleasure! without cost
All his: nay, he is paid for having what
Unto the Duke himself is almost lost!
Such compensations has Man's inward lot,
And richest those who énjoy, not have, most;
So outward difference of rank weighs not!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |