Both love a present self, in present time. They differ in their notions of its good. The stern ascetic, with his shirt of hair, His bleeding penitential knees, his fasts To almost death, his soul-exhausting prayers, Is seeking, cries the world, good after death. And yet his course of life is that alone Which could yield pleasure in his state of mind. He suffers, it is true, but hope of Heaven Thus rendered sure, as much a present good Is, as the food that feasts the epicure. The contemplation of his future home, Which he is thus securing, is a balm That heals his stripes, and sweetens all their pain. The penance blows upon his blood-wealed breast Are bliss compared to lashes of remorse. So for the greater good, the hope of Heaven, He undergoes “the trivial pain of flesh.” The epicure cares not a fig for Heaven, But finds his greatest good in pleasing sense. And so the man who gives his wealth away Is just as selfish as the money-slave Who grinds out life amid his dusty bags. They both seek happiness with equal zest: The one finds pleasure in the many thanks Of those receiving, or the public’s praise, Or if concealed, in consciousness of right; The other in the consciousness of wealth. If all men act from motives just the same, Where is the right and wrong? In the effect? The quality of actions must be judged From their intent, and not their consequence. If two men matches light for their cigars, And from one careless dropped, a house is burned, Is he that dropped it guiltier of crime Than he whose match went out? Most surely no! Then is the miser blameless, though he turn The helpless orphan freezing from his door; And Dives should not be commended more, Though all his goods to feed the poor he gives.