Page:Poems of home and country (IA poemsofhomecount01smit).pdf/151

 What wealth, of faithful work is born!

What greatness, won by toil,

E'en as the farmer's golden corn

Grows from the deep-worked soil!

Spoil not thy soul with nerveless aim,

With ille, weak desire;

Strive nobly for a noble name, -

To all high deeds aspire.

As from the crucible the gold,

Refined by fierce heat, flows;

As from the sculptor's dust and grime

The chiselled wonder grows, -

So, from earth's friction, toil and grief

Bring beauty, love, and truth,

Garments of praise for ripened days,

The light and crown of youth.

They waste, they spoil, their time and toil,

Who pleasure's goblet drain,

And fondly hope by idle wish

Life's high rewards to gain;

Like some bright, beauteous bird whose wing

Is torn, or clipped, or bound,

And his rich dyes he vainly trails

Aloug the dusty ground.

On wealth intent, in fierce pursnit

O'er distant climes and isles,

The merchant drives with eager laste,

And heap on heap he piles;

Like sand-hills on the wave-washed shore,

Like clonds of drifting spray,

Like mole-hills in the ploughman's path,

His treasures melt away.