Poem: The House in Which the Poet was Born by Anonymous

A noble mansion sure it was;
   All that such could be made; 
Adorn'd with tower and turret high,
   And lofty colonnade.
Around it, doubtless, widely spread,
   Lay lawns of smoothest green; 
And far beyond, in dense array, 
   Deep, still, green woods are seen.

And at the door brave lacqueys stood         
   In vestments trimmed with gold,
And toward the pile in glittering rows 
   Proud equipages roll'd.
And there in chamber damask-hung,
   And gay with mirrors bright, 
The infant bard -- the child of song -
   First woke to life and light.

Was it not so? Shake not thy head, 
   Nor treat my dream with scorn;
It was in such a house and room
   The Poet sure was born.
Where else could one foredoom'd to hold
   0'er human hearts such sway -
Where else so great a lord of thought
   Be usher'd into day?

Hard by the road a humble cot
   Uprears its roof of thatch,       
The walls tenacious clay secures,
   The crazy door a latch;

Here in a chamber rude and mean,
   Of aspect all forlorn,
Within a recess deep and dark,
   The glorious bard was born.

No festive boards for him were spread;
   Nor came there courtly throng,
In smiiles array'd, and gay attire, 
   To hail the child of song.

Stern poverty sat lording it 
   Within that drear abode,
And little dreamt its inmates of
   The gift had been bestow'd.

But proud would many a palace lord 
   Have been if such a lot,
Had fallen to him, as fell that day
   Upon the peasant's cot.

First published in The Moreton Bay Courier, 1 January 1848

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on September 18, 2010 9:22 AM.

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