A Poet’s Epitaph STOP, mortal! Here thy brother lies,— The poet of the poor. His books were rivers, woods, and skies, The meadow and the moor; His teachers were the torn heart’s wail, The tyrant, and the slave, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace,—and the grave! Sin met thy brother everywhere! And is thy brother blamed? From passion, danger, doubt, and care He no exemption claimed. The meanest thing, earth’s feeblest worm, He feared to scorn or hate; But, honoring in a peasant’s form The equal of the great, He blessed the steward, whose wealth makes The poor man’s little more; Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes From plundered labor’s store. A hand to do, a head to plan, A heart to feel and dare,— Tell man’s worst foes, here lies the man Who drew them as they are.
Burns
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A Poet’s Epitaph STOP, mortal! Here thy brother lies,— The poet of the poor. His books were rivers, woods, and skies, The meadow and the moor; His teachers were the torn heart’s wail, The tyrant, and the slave, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace,—and the grave... |
Lord! call thy pallid angel, The tamer of the strong! And bid him whip with want and woe The champions of the wrong! O, say not thou to ruin’s flood, “Up, sluggard! why so slow?” But alone, let them groan, The lowest of the low; And basely beg the bread they curse, Where millions... |
Again the violet of our early days Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, And kindles into fragrance at his blaze; The streams, rejoiced that winter’s work is done, Talk of to-morrow’s cowslips, as they run. Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom! Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed... |