Classic Poem

Bitterly blows the winter wind,
Along the crowded street,
And whistles its jigs at my crazy blind,
But my child has nought to eat.

Sounds of music and revel come,
Borne on the frosty air;
And merry is many a splendid home,
And deep is my despair!

The gilded footman waits at the door,
'Till the dancers are out of breath:
But the tottering step of the starving poor,
Is the frantic dance of death!

Strains of the violin and flute
From the comic opera come;
But the failing voice of Want is mute,
For Misery must be dumb.

It would trouble my lady that lolls at ease
In her satin elbow chair,
If were heard in the sigh of the icy breeze,
The wailing cry of Care.

It would worry my lord, with his delicate nerves —
His horses, his wines, and his gout,
To be told that anything else deserves
A thought, but his grand turnout!

On his downy rug the lap-dog lies,
Where the grate so blithely burns;
Nor dreams, outside, that a beggar sighs
For the dainty dish he spurns!

From many a belfry's golden chime,
The old, glad anthem rings;
And heavily my heart beats time
To the pendulum as it swings,

And I shrink and cower, as the crowds go by,
To the churches trimmed so gay;
O, God! and was it for such as I
That Christ was born to-day?