And again must he meet that orphan-maid to answer her face to face, And her wrongs shall cling around his neck, to hinder him from rising with the just: For his last most solemn act hath linked his name with liar, And the crime of Ananias is branded on his brow! A good man commendeth his cause to the one great Patron of innocence, Convinced of justice to the last, and sure of good meanwhile. He knoweth he hath a Guardian, wise and kind and strong, And can thank Him for giving, or refusing, the trust or the curse of riches: His confidence standeth as a rock; he dreadeth not malice nor caprice, Nor the whisperings of artful men, nor envious secret influence; He scorneth servile compromise, and the pliant mouthings of deceit; He maketh not a show of love, where he cannot concede esteem; He regardeth ill-got wealth, as the root most fruitful of wretchedness, So he walketh in straight integrity, leaning on God and his right. No gain, but by its price: labour, for the poor man's meal, Ofttimes heart-sickening toil, to win him a morsel for his hunger: Labour, for the chapman at his trade, a dull unvaried round, Year after year, unto death; yea, what a weariness is it! Labour, for the pale-faced scribe, drudging at his hated desk, Who bartereth for needful pittance the untold gold of health; Labour, with fear, for the merchant, whose hopes are ventured on the sea; Labour, with care, for the man of law, responsible in his gains; Labour, with envy and annoyance, where strangers will thee wealth; Labour, with indolence and gloom, where wealth falleth from a father; Labour unto all, whether aching thews, or aching head, or spirit,-- The curse on the sons of men, in all their states, is labour. Nevertheless, to the diligent, labour bringeth blessing: The thought of duty sweeteneth toil, and travail is as pleasure; And time spent in doing hath a comfort that is not for the idle, The hardship is transmuted into joy by the dear alchemy of Mercy. Labour is good for a man, bracing up his energies to conquest, And without it life is dull, the man perceiving himself useless: For wearily the body groaneth, like a door on rusty hinges, And the grasp of the mind is weakened, as the talons of a caged vulture. Wealth hath never given happiness, but often hastened misery: Enough hath never caused misery, but often quickened happiness: Enough is less than thy thought, O pampered creature of society, And he that hath more than enough, is a thief of the rights of his brother. OF INVENTION. [Illustration: "M"]