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Think not the poet's song

Worthless or idle; do not deem his lay

Fantastic, that he offers by the way,

To make it seem less long.

His numbers have their use,

Though foolish they may sound to worldling's ear;

His own lot, if no other's, they may cheer;

His own content produce.

Does he not add a light

To earth-born beauty, wanting it unknown?

To bloom give balm, to melody a tone,

Make brightness seem more bright?

Does he not fill the air

With sights, and shapes, and shadows?—make the sky

The dwelling-place of beings, which no eye

But his can image there?

And more than all, his lay

Awakes new feelings in the human heart,

And visions bring that never can depart,

When once they feel his sway.

To him the power is given

To soothe the broken heart, the care-worn mind;

And the waked soul in dreams ecstatic bind,

And bear away to heaven:

For to none else does earth

Look with so fair a promise; yea, to none

Speaks she with such an eloquence of tone,

Or to such thoughts gives birth,

Ah! who may analyse

The cloistered feelings of the poet's soul,

When Nature's impulse vibrates through the whole,

And Truth, that never dies!

Creation's beauties bring

Renewed enjoyment, and his genius fire;

For every sight, and every sound, inspire

His inmost heart to sing!

His birthright is to live

In citizenship with Nature;—to hold

Communion with her mysteries, his old

And high prerogative!

Seeks he for wealth, denied

By worldlings, lucre-led, of sordid mind;

His heritage—free, fertile, unconfined—

Is Nature's pastures wide.

Pants he for peace, to throw

A solace on his soul? The voice that breathes

Its music, 'mong the wild flowers' clustering wreaths,

Does to his heart bestow

A bliss that none can share,

Save him whom Nature to some far-sought wild

Has led, anointed as her chosen child,

And made her sacred care.

Where'er the breezes roam,

The mountains soar, or ocean's wave is thrown,

The poet's spirit, free as Nature's own,

Finds for itself a home!