AND here at home, too, Toil complains Of weary hours and meager gains, Of scanty raiment, food and fire And naught that fill the soul's desire For higher nurture; books and ease, To think and roam the farther seas; A weary riddle this to read,— No sphynx e'er held a closer creed,— Is Gold the king and Labor slave? Or Labor wronged and Gold the knave? Nay, ask it thus: shall Head command Or bow itself to rule of Hand? In truth, can neither reign alone But both may share and fill a throne.
