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,...
Ebenezer Elliott
-
-
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... -
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!...