Classic Poem

Burns toil'd, but Crompton, (better still,)
Toil'd, and created might:
Dead things, made vital by his skill,
Are blessing day and night;
Turning the foodfull furrow o'er,
Where never plough had gone before;
Where, but for him, and such as he,
The golden ear might never be.
Then, paying toil his wages, pay
To skill, yet higher wages;
Because the tool first us'd to day
May pay the toil of ages;
Creating wine, and oil, and corn,
For human millions yet unborn.