<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420485" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elliott</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hands off! thou tithe-fat plunderer! play<br>No trick of priestcraft here!<br>Back, puny lordling! darest thou lay<br>A hand on Elliott's bier?<br>Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust,<br>Beneath his feet he trod.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He knew the locust swarm that cursed<br>The harvest-fields of God.<br>On these pale lips, the smothered thought<br>Which England's millions feel,<br>A fierce and fearful splendor caught,<br>As from his forge the steel.<br>Strong-armed as Thor, a shower of fire<br>His smitten anvil flung;<br>God's curse, Earth's wrong, dumb Hunger's ire,<br>He gave them all a tongue!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then let the poor man's horny hands<br>Bear up the mighty dead,<br>And labor's swart and stalwart bands<br>Behind as mourners tread.<br>Leave cant and craft their baptized bounds,<br>Leave rank its minster floor;<br>Give England's green and daisied grounds<br>The poet of the poor!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lay down upon his Sheaf's green verge<br>That brave old heart of oak,<br>With fitting dirge from sounding forge,<br>And pall of furnace smoke!<br>Where whirls the stone its dizzy rounds,<br>And axe and sledge are swung,<br>And, timing to their stormy sounds,<br>His stormy lays are sung.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There let the peasant's step be heard,<br>The grinder chant his rhyme,<br>Nor patron's praise nor dainty word<br>Befits the man or time.<br>No soft lament nor dreamer's sigh<br>For him whose words were bread;<br>The Runic rhyme and spell whereby<br>The foodless poor were fed!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pile up the tombs of rank and pride,<br>O England, as thou wilt!<br>With pomp to nameless worth denied,<br>Emblazon titled guilt!<br>No part or lot in these we claim;<br>But, o'er the sounding wave,<br>A common right to Elliott's name,<br>A freehold in his grave!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420485" data-title="Elliott de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="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-..."></div> </div> </div>

solid border dashed border dotted border double border groove border ridge border inset border outset border no border blue green red purple cyan gold silver black