The Idler.
By Jean Blewett
If but one spark of honest zeal
Flashes to life within his breast -
A feeble, flick'ring spark at best;
If for a moment he doth feel
A dim desire to throw aside
The bonds that idleness has wrought,
To do, to be the man he ought,
The tyrant thing he calls his pride -
The curse of all things good on earth -
Takes on the cruel midwife's role,
And each high impulse of the soul
Is strangled in the hour of birth.
"To dig I am ashamed," quoth he;
"Mine is the pride of name and race
That scorns to fill such humble space -
Life's lowly tasks are not for me."
Oh, he can flatter with his tongue,
Can toady to the rich and great,
Can fawn on those he feels to hate,
Until from out his nature's wrung
Each shred of honesty and zeal,
Each impulse independent, strong,
Till truth and honor's but a song,
And naught is beautiful or real.