"POOR Tom's a-cold!" Upon his shrinking head The pelting storm beats pitiless! On bed Of languishing, disease, and cureless pain He lies, surrounded by the haggard train Of want—the victim of the thousand ills With which cold poverty the life-blood chills. Alas, poor Tom! must thy last look on earth Fall on a squalid room and cheerless hearth, Pale pining children, and a weeping wife, With scanty sustenance for needs of life? "Take physic, Pomp!"—good med'cine will be found In that small room, with misery brooding round. Time was when Tom invoked the Doric muse, And she to hear his suit would not refuse, And as he "bit the birse," and plied the awl, The voice of song rung through the cobbler's stall: And, while with sounding strokes he beat the leather, His heart was with the muse "amang the heather." I mourn for thee, my brother! Could thy weal By me be compassed, I were quick to heal Thy maladies, thy drooping spirits cheer, In aiding those by thee beloved and dear! Of gold and silver I, possessing none, Give what I have; and here I ask alone Of you who have—Is it not on record Who giveth to the poor lends to the Lord? A safe investment this? You freely may Lend to the Lord—He surely will repay. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HAARLEM HEIGHTS by ARTHUR GUITERMAN THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE CAPTAINS OF THE YEARS by ARTHUR RAYMOND MACDOUGALL JR. AUGUST SUNSET OVER LAKE CHAMPLAIN by FRANK A. BALCH |