NOR life nor death had any peace for thee, Seeing thy mother cast thee forth, a prey To wind and water, till we bade thee stay And rest, a pilgrim weary of the sea. But now it seems that on thine effigy Thy very host an impious hand would lay: Go then and wander, praising on thy way The proud Republic's hospitality! Yet oft with us wreathed brow must suffer wrong, The sad Enchanter of the land of Weir Is still uncrowned, unreverenced, and we fear The Lords of Gold above the Lords of Song, Were it not strange, then, should we honor more The sweet-mouthed singer of a foreign shore? GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONGS FOR TWO SEASONS: 1. AFTER GRAVE ILLNESS by CAROL FROST DIVIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |