George Crabbe

Children of the Night (1897)

Give him the darkest inch your shelf allows,Hide him in lonely garrets, if you will,—But his hard, human pulse is throbbing stillWith the sure strength that fearless truth endows.In spite of all fine science disavows,Of his plain excellence and stubborn skillThere yet remains what fashion cannot kill,Though years have thinned the laurel from his brows.

Whether or not we read him, we can feelFrom time to time the vigor of his nameAgainst us like a finger for the shameAnd emptiness of what our souls revealIn books that are as altars where we kneelTo consecrate the flicker, not the flame.

Title: English poet, lived from 1754 to 1832. Crabbe’s best-known works are The Village (1783) and The Borough (1810).