Classic Poem

The work of the winter day is o'er,
But Tom and his wife are weeping sore
Beside the hearth, where you can't forget
How the cakes were baked, and the copy set.

Oh, never again will Tom be taught!
From his master, by wicked trader bought;
And he will carry poor Tom next day,
From children, and wife, and home away.

His home—It was low of roof and wall,
But there had been room and love for all,
The peace that waits on contented days,
The voice of prayer and the hymn of praise.

And Tom himself, he is black of skin,
But, children, his soul is fair within,
His life is good and his heart is brave,
And yet they have sold him as a slave.

The fire light shows on the lowly bed,
Each dusky face, and each curly head
Of his little children, sound asleep;
Oh well may their poor tired mother weep!

Now Tom is trying to soothe her woe:
“Dear Chloe 'tis best that I should go,
Our babes and you will live safely here,
And I may be far, but God is near.”

“Yet think of me, love, when I am gone,
And the days of the pleasant spring come on.
Don't grieve, dear wife”—and his tears fell fast.
“You know we will meet in heaven at last.”