Classic Poem

Oh ! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain,
It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain,
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain!

The children of the rich man have not their bread to win;
They hardly know how labor is the penalty of sin;
Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin.

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear;
In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share;
They walk among life's pleasant ways, and never know a care

The children of the poor man — though they be young, each one,
Early in the morning they rise up before the rising sun,
And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task is done.

Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride, —
The sunshine of the summer's day, the flowers on the highway side,
Or their own free companionship, on the heathy common wide.

Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three;
But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty: —
It may not have one thing to love, how small soe'er it be.

A thousand flocks were on the hills — a thousand flocks, and more, —
Feeding in sunshine pleasantly, — they were the rich man's store;
There was the while, one little lamb, beside a cottage door:

A little lamb that did lie down with the children 'neath the tree;
That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled on their knee;
That had a place within their hearts, as one of the family.

But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed.
The father labored all day long, that his children might be fed;
And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread.

That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,
Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued;
" What is the creature's life to us? " said he, " 'twill buy us food!

" Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head
Each does his small craft mournfully! — the hungry must be fed;
And that which has a price to bring, must go, to buy us bread! "

It went — oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring,
But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,
With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing!

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,
Most sorrowful tOhear them plead for their pet so piteously; —
" Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?

" Let's take him to the broad, green hills, " in his impotent despair,
Said one strong boy, " let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair;
I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there! "

'Twas vain! — they took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down,
With a strong cord they tied him fast; — and o'er the common brown,
And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.

The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow
From everything about the house a mournful thought did borrow;
The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow! —

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain —
It keepeth down the soul of man as with an iron chain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain!