Classic Poem

The widow's mite! Ah, who with eye
Unmoistened does the dole descry?
Dropped in response to misery's moan,
This largess of the woman lone
Can king or emperor outvie?

Gentle the hand that does supply
The modest alms; but if she try
Her power, bound hand and foot we own
The widow's might.

Right well we know how maidens shy,
When swains approach, still turn and fly;
But when pursued by lovers prone,
And begged to make her mercy known,
The widow won't , — ah, then we sigh,
The widows might!