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--arid the grave! The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm He feared to scorn or hate; And honour'd in a peasant's form The equal of the great. But if he lov'd the rich who make The poor man's little more, Ill could he praise the rich who take From plundered labour's store. A hand to do, a head to plan, A heart to feet and dare-- Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man Who drew them as they are.