And honor never links with fame
The modest glories of his heart.

He needs no kiss of royal crown
To wield the axe or guide the plow,
Or woo the smiles of heaven down
To cling in clusters on his brow;
But in the sacred shine of love,
With humble deeds he lives his days,
And, drinking from the founts above,
He scatters gladness o'er his ways.

Proud monarch of the tattered vest,
Thy toil is fraught with greater gains
Than his that bleeds where warrior crest
Slays thousands on the battled plains!
Thy duty prompts to build, to grow,
The forest fell, the city plan
And scatter seeds of love below,
Where'er thou art, O, workingman!




GIVING AND FORGIVING.


'Tis not by selfish miser's greed
The great rewards of love are given;
'Tis not the cynic's haughty creed