forget. The dying Dumas feared he had written in vain, but he wrought better than he knew; and the rock of human nature on which he built will endure through ages of carking Time, and all the storms of change.
******
Oh, my father, thou the thinker, thou the poet—can it be
That naught will snap the chain of bondage round thy heart, and set thee free?
Must thou ever give thy best
To the others who grow wealthy with the riches from thy store,
Leaving you not e'en as solace, when the long weck's work is o'er,
One brief seventh day of rest?
Bow thy head, then to thy labours! Not for thee the fields, the flow'rs,
Laughing song of birds, that echo in the leafy mountain bow'rs,
Peaceful sleep of liberty,
Smiling valleys, in the glory of the setting summer sun,
And the sweet, faint breath of nature—Heaven's gift to ev'ry one—
Free to all men, but to thee.
From thy study-window gleaming, one may watch and see, alway
When the twilight falls at even, when the dawn is dim and gray,
Light of lamps that shine for thee.
Galley-slave of thine own talent, thou must toil, and toil in vain;
Thou canst not, with all thy weary years of labour and of pain,
Buy a month of liberty!
