Thus were the numbers taught at first to flow,
Scarce conscious that they bore a tale along;
Beneath my hand still would the pages grow,—
They were not labor, but the joy of song;
Still every line would unsung beauties show
In Williams’ soul, and still the strain prolong;
Till, all in rapture with the theme sublime,
My thoughts spontaneous sought the embodying rhyme.
No man was he of heart with love confined,
With blessings only for his bosom friend,—