"POOR HOOD!".
Who lies below yon splendid tomb
That stretches out so broad and tall?
The worms will surely ne'er exhume
A sleeper locked within such wall.
That stretches out so broad and tall?
The worms will surely ne'er exhume
A sleeper locked within such wall.
And see, that other stately pile
Of chiselled glory, staring out—
Come, Sexton, leave your work awhile,
And tell us what we ask about.
Of chiselled glory, staring out—
Come, Sexton, leave your work awhile,
And tell us what we ask about.
So one belongs to him who held
A score of trained and tortured steeds;
Great Circus Hero, unexcelled!
On what strange stuff Ambition feeds.
A score of trained and tortured steeds;
Great Circus Hero, unexcelled!
On what strange stuff Ambition feeds.
The other guards the last repose
Of one who shone by juggling craft;
Methinks when such a temple rose
How Esculapius must have laughed.
Of one who shone by juggling craft;
Methinks when such a temple rose
How Esculapius must have laughed.
And see that tomb beneath yon tree!—
But, Sexton, tell us where to find
The grave of him we came to see;—
Is it not here, or are we blind?
But, Sexton, tell us where to find
The grave of him we came to see;—
Is it not here, or are we blind?
We mean poor Hood's, the man who made
That song about the "Bridge of Sighs;"
You know the song—well, leave your spade,
And please to show us where he lies.
That song about the "Bridge of Sighs;"
You know the song—well, leave your spade,
And please to show us where he lies.
What, there without a single mark,—
Without a stone, without a line,—
Does watchfire Genius leave no spark
To note its ashes as divine?
Without a stone, without a line,—
Does watchfire Genius leave no spark
To note its ashes as divine?
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