Motive

Worthless, the man who works - he knows not why,             Whom naught inspires to his puny plan,         Who seeming plays his part instinctively:             Soulless, and falsely designated "man."         Wicked, who works from wish of worldly gain, -             His soul surrendered to th'accursd lust         Of pleasure partial, briefly to remain,             Of treasure liable to moth and rust.         Foolish and vain is he whose motive - fame,             Ruled by desire of honor and renown;         And fondly courting Fortune's fickle Dame, -             To-day she smiles, to-morrow she will frown.         But virtuous, noble, prompted from above,             Preluding now the perfect life again,         Is he, whose only inspiration, love,             Love to his God and to his fellow-men.         For love is naught but God's own nature, given,             In partial measure, down to man to come;         The sole delight of earth, the key to heaven;             Of all the virtues, centre, source, and sum.