An easy thing, O Power Divine, To thank thee for these gifts of thine! For summer's sunshine, winter's snow, For hearts that kindle, thoughts that glow; But when shall I attain to this: To thank thee for the things I miss? For all young fancy's early gleams, The dreamed-of joys that still are dreams. Hopes unfulfilled, and pleasures known Through others' fortunes, not my own, And blessings seen that are not given, And ne'er will be, this side of heaven. Had I, too, shared the joys I see, Would there have been a heaven for me? Could I have felt thy presence near Had I possessed what I held dear? My deepest fortune, highest bliss, Have grown, perchance, from things I miss. Sometimes there comes an hour of calm; Grief turns to blessing, pain to balm; A Power that works above my will Still leads me onward, upward still; And then my heart attains to this: To thank thee for the things I miss. --Thomas Wentworth Higginson. 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 fears 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-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.