The lump of gold: and other poems By Charles Mackay |
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 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. | XII. AT A POET'S GRAVE. |
| XIII. |
| XV. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
 | The lump of gold: and other poems |  |
167
XII. AT A POET'S GRAVE.
I
Let him rest! Let him rest!With the green earth on his breast;
The daisies grow above him and the long sedge-grasses wave.
What call or right have you,
Ye mercenary crew,
To lift the pitying veil that shrouds him in the grave?
'Tis true this man could sing,
Like lark in early spring,
Or tender nightingale, deep hidden in the bowers;—
'Tis true that he was wise,
And that his heavenward eyes,
Saw far beyond the clouds that dim this world of ours;
168
To rake his narrow bed,
And peer into his heart for flaws, and spots, and stains?
And all because his voice
Bade multitudes rejoice,
And cheer'd Humanity amid its griefs and pains?
II
Let him rest! Let him rest!With the green earth on his breast,
And leave! oh leave! his fame unsullied by your breath!
Each day that passes by,
What meaner mortals die;
What thousand raindrops fall into the seas of death!
No vendor of a tale,
His merchandise for sale,
Pries into evidence to show how mean were they;
No libel touches them,
No curious fools condemn;
Their human frailties sleep, for God, not man to weigh.
169
Have all his follies known,
Dug from the misty past to spice a needless book,—
That Envy may exclaim,
At mention of his name,
‘The greatest are but small, however great they look?’
III
Let them rest, their sorrows o'er,All the mighty bards of yore!
And if, ye grubbers-up of scandals dead and gone,
Ye find, amid the slime,
Some sin of ancient time,
Some fault, or seeming fault, that Shakespeare might have done;
Some spot on Milton's truth,
Or Byron's glowing youth;
Some error, not too small for microscopic gaze:
170
As on your father's tomb
You'd hush the evil tongues that spoke in his dispraise.
Shroud it in darkest night!
Or, if compelled to write—
Tell us the inspiring tale of perils overcome:
Of struggles for the good,
Of courage unsubdued,
But let their frailties rest, and on their faults be dumb!
Ayrshire, 1854.
| The lump of gold: and other poems | |