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For other versions of this work, see The Heritage (Lowell).

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THE HERITAGE.

The rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick and stone and gold;

And he inherits soft, white hands,

And tender flesh that feels the cold,

Nor dares to wear a garment old,—

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares:

The bank may break, the factory burn;

A breath may burst his bubble shares;

And soft white hands could hardly earn

A living that would serve his turn,—

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants:

His stomach craves for dainty fare;

With sated heart, he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,

And wearies in his easy chair,—

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part

In every useful toil and art,—

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,

A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit,

Content that from employment springs,

A heart that in his labor sings,—

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

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What doth the poor man's son inherit?

A patience learned by being poor;

Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it;

A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door,—

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil,

That with all others level stands:

Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft white hands;

This is the best crop from thy lands,—

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state:

There is worse weariness than thine,

In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,

And makes rest fragrant and benign,—

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being poor to hold in fee.

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 to a well-filled past,

A heritage, it seems to me,

Well worth a life to hold in fee.

James Russell Lowell.