Classic Poem

Not yet for this alone, shall history's scroll
Embalm thine image with a grateful tear;
For when the grasp of famine tried the soul,
When strength decay'd, and dark despair was near,
Who led her train of playmates, day by day,
O'er rock, and stream, and wild, a weary way,
Their baskets teeming with the golden ear?
Whose generous hand vouchsafed its tireless aid
To guard a nation's germ? Thine, thine, heroic maid!