Page:Poems Cook.djvu/423

Must strangers come to woo his shade,
 Scanning rare beauties as they pass;
And, when they pause where he is laid,
 Stop at a trodden mound of grass?

And is it thus? Well, we suppose
 England is far too poor to spare
A slab of white, where Truth might write
 The title of her Poet-Heir.

Let us adorn our city walks
 With senate form and soldier chief,—
Carve toga-folds and laurel stalks,—
 Let marble shine in robe and leaf.

But Hood—"poor Hood!"—the Poet fool
 Who sung of Woman's woes and wrongs,
Who taught his Master's Golden Rule,—
 Give him no statue for his songs!

Give him the dust beneath his head,
 Give him a grave—a grave alone;
In Life he dearly won his bread,—
 In death—he is not worth a stone!

Perhaps we rightly think that he
 Who flung God's light round lowly things,
Can soar above, in Memory's love,
 Supported by his own bright wings.

Our Shakspere can be only met
 Within a narrow Playhouse Porch;
So, Hood, thy spirit need not fret,
 But hold its own immortal torch.

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