What gorgeous cenotaphs arise, Of Parian shrine and granite vault, With blazoned claims on purer skies, That shut out earthly flaw and fault.
Who lies below yon splendid tomb That stretches out so broad and tall? The worms will surely ne'er exhume A sleeper locked within such wall.
And see, that other stately pile Of chiselled glory, staring out— Come, Sexton, leave your work awhile, And tell us what we ask about.
So one belongs to him who held A score of trained and tortured steeds; Great Circus Hero, unexcelled! On what strange stuff Ambition feeds.
The other guards the last repose Of one who shone by juggling craft; Methinks when such a temple rose How Esculapius must have laughed.
And see that tomb beneath yon tree!— But, Sexton, tell us where to find The grave of him we came to see;— Is it not here, or are we blind?
We mean poor Hood's, the man who made That song about the "Bridge of Sighs;" You know the song—well, leave your spade, And please to show us where he lies.
What, there without a single mark,— Without a stone, without a line,— Does watchfire Genius leave no spark To note its ashes as divine?
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.
"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.
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.
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!"
