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"POOR HOOD!"
"Poor Hood!" for whom a people wreathes
The heart-born flowers that never die;
"Poor Hood!" for whom a requiem breathes
In every human Toil-wrung sigh.
The heart-born flowers that never die;
"Poor Hood!" for whom a requiem breathes
In every human Toil-wrung sigh.
Let the Horse-tamer's bed be known
By the rich mausoleum-shrine;
Give the bold Quack his charnel-throne,—
Their works were worthier far than thine.
By the rich mausoleum-shrine;
Give the bold Quack his charnel-throne,—
Their works were worthier far than thine.
And let thy soul serenely sleep,
While pilgrims stand as I have stood,
To worship at a nameless heap,
And sadly, fondly, say, "Poor Hood!"
While pilgrims stand as I have stood,
To worship at a nameless heap,
And sadly, fondly, say, "Poor Hood!"
London:—R. Clay, Printer, Bread Street Hill
408
