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'accursed 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.