Classic Poem

I do not mourn my friends are false,
I dare not grieve for sins of mine,
I weep for those who pine to death,
Great God! in this rich world of thine.

So many trees there are to see,
And fields go waving broad with grain,
And yet,—what utter misery!—
Our very brothers lie in pain.

These by their darkened hearth-stones sit,
Their children shivering idly round,
As true as liveth God, 't were fit
For these poor men to curse the ground.

And those who daily bread have none,
Half starved the long, long winter's day,
Fond parents gazing on their young,
Too wholly sad one word to say.

To them it seems, their God has cursed
This race of ours since they were born;
Willing to toil, and yet deprived
Of common wood, or store of corn.

I do not weep for my own woes,
They are as nothing in my eye;
I weep for them who, starved and froze,
Do curse their God, and long to die.