Classic Poem

Give not our blankets, tax-fed Squire, to him,
Thy willing pauper, with the dangerous brow!
He is not worthier, generous Squire, than thou,
But stronger far, and sound in wind and limb.
Know'st thou yon widow? She is wise and chaste;
And comely, though her famished eyes wax dim.
Her husband built a house upon the waste,
And lost it: they who found it should make haste
With help for her who, else, will die today.
She hath no blankets! and no parish-pay:
But she hath frosted feet, a fireless grate,
A well-swept floor--by neighbor's feet untrod!
Tears, which are ice; a starved dog, a clean plate,
Her wedding ring, her bible--and her God!