Classic Poem

One who, the self-same morning, had decoy'd
The widow and her son with glozing talk,
At eve through springing pastures walk'd abroad,
And; after his poor sort, enjoy'd his walk.
That night he dream'd: fresh flowers and April grass
Smother'd his cruel pen; the white lamb kneel'd
Upon his crafty parchments, sign'd and seal'd
By victim hands; a babbling stream did pass
Sheer through those written wiles, till that base ink,
Which robb'd the widow's mite, the orphan's dole,
Lost colour. But that dream-begotten blink
Of damage waked at once his mammon-soul;
From his keen glance all vernal tokens shrink
While Fraud and Twilight watch the lying scroll.