Little store of wealth have I;
Not a rood of land I own;
Nor a mansion fair and high
Built with towers of fretted stone.
Stocks, nor bonds, nor title-deeds,
Flocks nor herds have I to show;
When I ride, no Arab steeds
Toss for me their manes of snow.
I have neither pearls nor gold,
Massive plate, nor jewels rare;
Broidered silks of worth untold,
Nor rich robes a queen might wear.
In my garden’s narrow bound
Flaunt no costly tropic blooms,
Ladening all the air around
With a weight of rare perfumes.
Yet to an immense estate
Am I heir, by grace of God,—
Richer, grander than doth wait
Any earthly monarch’s nod.
Heir of all the Ages, I—
Heir of all that they have wrought,
All their store of emprise high,
All their wealth of precious thought.
Every golden deed of theirs
Sheds its lustre on my way;
All their labors, all their prayers,
Sanctify this present day!
Heir of all that they have earned
By their passion and their tears,—
Heir of all that they have learned
Through the weary, toiling years!
Heir of all the faith sublime
On whose wings they soared to heaven;
Heir of every hope that Time
To Earth’s fainting sons hath given!
Aspirations pure and high—
Strength to dare and to endure—
Heir of all the Ages, I—
Lo! I am no longer poor!