Classic Poem

Thou sang'st no labored virelay,
Thou hadst no tunes to suit thy day,
And so the world hath not drawn near
To praise and weep about thy bier.
Thou hadst not trilled a dainty song,
Nor slurred in art the darling wrong,
Nor sucked such milk as one who feeds
At withered breasts of ancient creeds.
An age too soon thy soul did stray
From heaven to earth down star-lit way,
And none had grace to understand,
And bend to kiss thy prophet hand,
And dimly guess the future might
Of pen plunged in thy heart to write.
Yet, though that ink of blood and tears
Shall glow as fire in coming years,
Save hirelings and I to-day
None watch thy clay returned to clay.
Yet prouder I the claim to have
To stand here by this open grave
Than laureate with the right to sing
Beside the catafalque of king.
O friend, this lonely scene bespeaks
The vengeance that the gay world wreaks
On him whose name shall bear this stain:
“He loved the truth, and spake too plain.”