STOP mortal ! Here thy brother lies, <br />The Poet of the Poor ; <br />His books were rivers, woods and skies, <br />The meadow and the moor; <br />His teachers were the torn heart's wail, <br />The tyrant and the slave, <br />The street, the factory, the jail, <br />The palace--arid the grave! <br />The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm <br />He feared to scorn or hate; <br />And honour'd in a peasant's form <br />The equal of the great. <br />But if he lov'd the rich who make <br />The poor man's little more, <br />Ill could he praise the rich who take <br />From plundered labour's store. <br />A hand to do, a head to plan, <br />A heart to feet and dare-- <br />Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man <br />Who drew them as they are.<br /><br />Ebenezer Elliott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-poet-s-epitaph-2/
