Classic Poem

A FRAGMENT

The rough hail rattles through the trees,
The sullen lift lowers gloomy gray,
The traveller sees the swelling storm,
And seeks the ale-house by the way.

But, waes me! for yon widow'd wretch,
Borne down with years and heavy care,
Her sapless fingers scarce can nip
The wither'd twigs to beeTher fire.

Thus youth and vigour fends itsel';
Its help, reciprocal, is sure,
While dowless Eild, in poortith cauld,
Is lonely left to stand the stoure.