An Englishman was Thomas Paine <br /> Who bled for liberty; <br />But while his fight was far from vain <br /> He died in poverty: <br />Though some are of the sober thinking <br /> 'Twas due to drinking. <br /> <br />Yet this is what appeals to me: <br /> Cobbet, a friend, loved him so well <br />He sailed across the surly sea <br /> To raw and rigid New Rochelle: <br />With none to say: 'Take him not from us!' <br /> He raped the grave of Thomas. <br /> <br />And in his library he set <br /> These bones so woe-begone; <br />I have no doubt his eyes were wet <br /> To scan that skeleton. <br />That grinning skull from which in season <br /> Emerged the Age of Reason. <br /> <br />Then Cobbet in his turn lay dead, <br /> And auctioneering tones <br />Over his chattels rudely said: <br /> 'Who wants them bloody bones?' <br />None did, so they were scattered far <br /> And God knows where they are. <br /> <br />A friend of Franklin and of Pitt <br /> He lived a stormy span; <br />The flame of liberty he lit <br /> And rang the Rights of Man. <br />Yet pilgrims from Vermont and Maine <br />In hero worship seek in vain <br /> The bones of Thomas Paine.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tom-paine/
