For fortune's prize let others pant,
And count the "yellow slave,"
No joys can gathered jewels grant,
No sickening sorrows save--
But bustling and jostling
To swell the treasured heap,
It cloys us, annoys us,
And leaves the _heart_ to weep.
Let others climb the dizzy height
Where glory shines afar,
Alas! renown is but the light
That decks the falling star.
Still driving and striving
To reach the radiant prize,
We grasp it and clasp it,
And in our touch it dies.
But, oh! let mine the treasure be
That social joys impart,
And mine the glory, sympathy
Beams on the feeling heart--
Still soothing and smoothing
The grief of friends distrest,
And lending and spending,
That others may be blest.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.