TO A POET.
O poet, would'st thou make a name
That ne'er will die,
But be coeval with the lights
In yonder sky?
Strike not a single, trembling chord,
In the heart-lyre;
But wake the full and sweet accord
Of every wire.
Of joy, of grief, of hopeless love
And pining care,
Of terror, pain, and deep remorse,
And wild despair.
Of Hope, of Faith, of Piety:
Each fibre move;
But yet the sweetest note shall be
The note of Love.
Strike! poet! strike each quiv'ring chord,
In that strange lyre,
Then, men thy golden songs will hoard,
Till time expire.