Classic Poem

1.

When the pale worker faints,
Making no moan,
Though his unutter'd plaints
Rise to God's throne,
What from despair can keep
Languor too tir'd to sleep,
Sorrow too sad to weep?
Music alone!

2.

Milton, poor, old, and blind,
Fated to bear
Worst woes that scourge his kind,
Did not despair:
What, behind curtains worn,
Where his night knew no morn,
Held up his heart forlorn?
Music was there.

3.

Then, to the hopeless one,
Thus, if you can,
Sing, weary wife or son,
Wasted and wan:
" Though pain our portion be,
High is our destiny:
Born thrall of poverty,
Still thou art Man! "

4.

" Homer and Plato were
Kindred of thine;
With thee the angels share
Utt'rance divine;
Heav'n hath thine image got;
Jesus partook thy lot;
And where night cometh not
Thy sun will shine. "