The Idler.

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.