Elliott

Hands off! thou tithe-fat plunderer! play     No trick of priestcraft here!     Back, puny lordling! darest thou lay     A hand on Elliott's bier?     Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust,     Beneath his feet he trod.     He knew the locust swarm that cursed     The harvest-fields of God.     On these pale lips, the smothered thought     Which England's millions feel,     A fierce and fearful splendor caught,     As from his forge the steel.     Strong-armed as Thor, a shower of fire     His smitten anvil flung;     God's curse, Earth's wrong, dumb Hunger's ire,     He gave them all a tongue!     Then let the poor man's horny hands     Bear up the mighty dead,     And labor's swart and stalwart bands     Behind as mourners tread.     Leave cant and craft their baptized bounds,     Leave rank its minster floor;     Give England's green and daisied grounds     The poet of the poor!     Lay down upon his Sheaf's green verge     That brave old heart of oak,     With fitting dirge from sounding forge,     And pall of furnace smoke!     Where whirls the stone its dizzy rounds,     And axe and sledge are swung,     And, timing to their stormy sounds,     His stormy lays are sung.     There let the peasant's step be heard,     The grinder chant his rhyme,     Nor patron's praise nor dainty word     Befits the man or time.     No soft lament nor dreamer's sigh     For him whose words were bread;     The Runic rhyme and spell whereby     The foodless poor were fed!     Pile up the tombs of rank and pride,     O England, as thou wilt!     With pomp to nameless worth denied,     Emblazon titled guilt!     No part or lot in these we claim;     But, o'er the sounding wave,     A common right to Elliott's name,     A freehold in his grave