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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-won 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.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned of 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 of a well-filled past;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.

THRENODIA.

[Written upon the death of a young child.]

How peacefully they rest,

Crossfolded there

Upon his little breast,

Those small, white hands that ne'er were still before,

But ever sported with his mother's hair,

Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore!

Her heart no more will beat

To feel the touch of that soft palm,

That ever seemed a new surprise

Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes

To bless him with their holy calm

Sweet thoughts! they made her eyes as sweet.
How quiet are the hands

That wove those pleasant bands!

But that they do not rise and sink

With his calm breathing, I should think

That he were dropped asleep.

Alas! too deep, too deep

Is this his slumber!

Time scarce can number

The years ere he will wake again.

O, may we see his eyelids open then!

O stern word-Nevermore!

As the airy gossamere,

Floating in the sunlight clear,
Where'er it toucheth clingeth tightly,
Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly,
So from his spirit wandered out
Tendrils spreading all about,
Knitting all things to its thrall

With a perfect love of all:
O stern word-Nevermore!

He did but float a little way

Adown the stream of time,

With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play,

Or listening their fairy chime;

His slender sail

Ne'er felt the gale;

He did but float a little way,
And, putting to the shore
While yet 'twas early day,
Went calmly on his way,
To dwell with us no more!
No jarring did he feel,
No grating on his vessel's keel;

A strip of silver sand

Mingled the waters with the land
Where he was seen no more:

O stern word-Nevermore!

Full short his journey was; no dust
Of earth unto his sandals clave;
The weary weight that old men must,
He bore not to the grave.

He seemed a cherub who had lost his way
And wandered hither, so his stay

With us was short, and 'twas most meet
That he should be no delver in earth's clod,
Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet
To stand before his God:

O blest word-Evermore!

TO J. R. GIDDINGS.1

Giddings, far rougher names than thine have grown
Smoother than honey on the lips of men ;

And thou shalt aye be honorably known
As one who bravely used his tongue and pen
As best befits a freeman-even for those,

To whom our Law's unblushing front denies

A right to plead against the life-long woes

Which are the Negro's glimpse of Freedom's skies:
Fear nothing and hope all things, as the Right

Alone may do securely; every hour

The thrones of Ignorance and ancient Night

Lose somewhat of their long-usurped power,

And Freedom's lightest word can make them shiver
With a base dread that clings to them forever.

Joshua R. Giddings, now (1858) the oldest member of the U. S. House of Representatives, was born in Athens, Bradford County, Pa., on the 6th of October, 1795. While in his infancy, his father removed to Canandaigua, N. Y., and remained there till 1806, when he removed to Ashtabula County, Ohio. Having a strong taste for literature, young Giddings determined to enter professional life; and by constant labor and self-denying efforts he was enabled to present himself for admission to the bar in 1826. His practice soon became extensive. In a few years, he was elected to the legislature of his own State, and in 1838 to a seat in the U. S. House of Representatives. In February, 1838, he made his first anti-slavery speech in Congress. In 1842 he was censured by the House of Representatives for introducing antislavery resolutions. He at once resigned, returned home, appealed to his constituents, and in five weeks was returned by an overwhelming majority. There he has remained ever since-a most vigilant and faithful watchman, on the watch-tower of liberty. His congressional speeches have been published in a handsome volume of 511 pages--a monument to his courage and faithfulness to truth more enduring than granite or marble.

FREEDOM.1

Men! whose boast it is that ye
Come of fathers brave and free,
If there breathe on earth a slave,
Are ye truly free and brave?
If ye do not feel the chain,
When it works a brother's pain,
Are ye not base slaves indeed-
Slaves unworthy to be freed?

Women! who shall one day bear
Sons to breathe New England air,
If ye hear, without a blush,

Deeds to make the roused blood rush
Like red lava through your veins,
For your sisters now in chains-
Answer! are ye fit to be
Mothers of the brave and free?

Is true Freedom but to break
Fetters for our own dear sake,
And, with leathern hearts, forget
That we owe mankind a debt?
No! true freedom is to share
All the chains our brothers wear,
And, with heart and hand, to be
Earnest to make others free!

They are slaves who fear to speak

For the fallen and the weak;

They are slaves who will not choose

Hatred, scoffing, and abuse,

Rather than in silence shrink

From the truth they needs must think;
They are slaves who dare not be

In the right with two or three.

THE ALPINE SHEEP.

[Addressed to a friend after the loss of a child }

When on my ear your loss was knelled,
And tender sympathy upburst,

A little spring from memory welled,

Which once had quenched my bitter thirst,

Sung at the Anti-Slavery Picnic in Dedham, on the anniversary of West India Emancipation, August 1, 1813.

And I was fain to bear to you

A portion of its mild relief,
That it might be a healing dew,
To steal some fever from your grief.
After our child's untroubled breath
Up to the Father took its way,
And on our home the shade of Death
Like a long twilight haunting lay,

And friends came round, with us to weep
Her little spirit's swift remove,
The story of the Alpine sheep

Was told to us by one we love.

They, in the valley's sheltering care,

Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, And when the sod grows brown and bare, The Shepherd strives to make them climb

To airy shelves of pasture green,

That hang along the mountain's side, Where grass and flowers together lean,

And down through mist the sunbeams slide.

But naught can tempt the timid things
The steep and rugged path to try,
Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings,
And seared below the pastures lie,

Till in his arms his lambs he takes,
Along the dizzy verge to go,

Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,
They follow on o'er rock and snow.

And in these pastures, lifted fair,

More dewy-soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed.

This parable, by Nature breathed,

Blew on me as the south wind free
O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed
From icy thraldom to the sea.

A blissful vision through the night
Would all my happy senses sway
Of the Good Shepherd on the height,
Or climbing up the starry way.

Holding our little lamb asleep,

While, like the murmur of the sea, Sounded that voice along the deep, Saying, "Arise and follow me.'

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