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--