Poem: The Poet's Grave by Henry Halloran

The warrior may rest in his trophied gloom,
   The statesman in abbey old;
But the poet shall have a brighter tomb,
   In the green bank's flowering mould.

No marble shall press his fiery clay,
   No walls his bones surround;
He shall rest with his eyes towards the God of Day,
   And the free winds blowing round.

And maidens shall come to the pleasant spot,
   And shall con his sweet themes o'er;
And one, perchance of a loftier lot,
   Shall the treasure she lost, deplore.

And children, whom he so dearly loved,
   Shall laugh as they frolic about;
And his spirit itself, with joy shall be moved,
   To hear their jocund shout.

And birds shall build, and flowers shall grow;
   And sunbeams shall scatter their light,
On the bank, which the poet now rests below;
   And the bright stars shall gleam all night.

But ye who have hearts, base, cruel, or cold,
   Trample not on the poet's grave;
He cared not for power, he cared not for gold,
   And loathed both the tyrant and slave.

First published in The Colonist, 15 June 1839