George Pope Morris (1802-1864 / USA)
Lines On A Poet.
How sweet the cadence of his lyre!
What melody of words!
They strike a pulse within the heart
Like songs of forest-birds,
Or tinkling of the shepherd's bell
Among the mountain-herds.
His mind's a cultured garden,
Where Nature's hand has sown
The flower-seeds of poesy--
And they have freshly grown,
Imbued with beauty and perfume
To other plants unknown.
A bright career's before him--
All tongues pronounce his praise;
All hearts his inspiration feel,
And will in after-days;
For genius breathes in every line
Of his soul-thrilling lays.
A nameless grace is round him--
A something, too refined
To be described, yet must be felt
By all of human kind--
An emanation of the soul,
That can not be defined.
Then blessings on the minstrel--
His faults let others scan:
There may be spots upon the sun,
Which those may view who can;
I see them not--yet know him well
A POET AND A MAN.
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