Classic Poem

Wrongs, in themselves, are feeble weeds,
And yet how fast they grow!
For slaves make tyrants, and the seeds
Of all that tyrants sow.
Weeds, tyrants know, wherever sown,
Will clothe in weeds the sod:
Therefore they say, " Man, mind thy own,
And leave the rest to God. "
But God hath will'd that wretched man
Shall work while it is day,
And help his brethren, if he can,
Along their painful way:
Nor fail to plant, as on he goes
From humble door to door,
Soul-featur'd Beauty's pink or rose,
To bless and raise the poor.