STOP mortal ! Here thy brother lies,
The Poet of the Poor ;
His books were rivers, woods and skies,
The meadow and the moor
In these days, every mother's son or daughter
Writes verse, which no one reads except the writer,
Although, uninked, the paper would be whiter,
Dark, deep, and cold the current flows
Unto the sea where no wind blows,
Seeking the land which no one knows.
When wilt Thou save the people?
O God of mercy! when?
Not kings and lords, but nations!
Not thrones and crowns, but men!
Spring, summer, autumn, winter,
Come duly, as of old;
Winds blow, suns set, and morning saith,
'Ye hills, put on your gold.'
'God made all nations of one blood,'
And bade the nation-wedding flood
Bear good for good to men:
Lo, interchange is happiness! -
Sweet village! where my early days were pass'd,
Though parted long, we meet, we meet at last!
Like friends, imbrown'd by many a sun and wind,
Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!
So put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.