TO THE POET.

Ho, poet of the soul refined!
The muse within that soul enshrined,
Think'st thou to mould unto thy mind
Base, common clay?

Within the church—most holy place—
Endowed of Heaven's especial grace,
The weeds of evil grow apace,
Why not without?

II.

With eagle flights all may not soar,
Nor bask in fields of richest lore,
Yet, poesy a balm should pour
O'er worldly woes.

III.

Essence divine! leal hearts will sing
Though baser souls mean offerings bring;
True anthems o'er the false shall ring
Eternally.