Classic Poem

I.

" Who built this lofty pile? "
I asked the sullen porter at the gate.
" His was a noble style
And matchless art. What were his name and fate?
Uprising stiff and slow,
With sharp rheumatic creak and muttering low —
" I never heard his name nor cared to hear, "
He answered grudgingly.
" He has been dead and dust for many a year:
What is the man to me? "

II.

In a forgotten nook,
Flung out of sight to rot in damp and murk,
I found a tattered book.
" Whose was the hand that penned this glorious work? "
I asked my surly guide;
" His deathless fame is sure his nation's pride. "
" How should I know, " he said with crabbed scorn,
" Some arrant fool or liar!
Give me the trash, 'twill serve some winter morn
To light my kitchen fire. "