It is “a holy thing”—it is the chain
Electric, hanging from the glorious sky.
Touch it—it is a sov’reign cure for pain—
A remedy not often tried in vain.
Ye suff’ring hearts! the poet toils for you,
And while he toils, himself doth comfort gain;
He seeks your path with fragrant flowers to strew,
And, while he plants them there, enjoys their fragrance too.
X.
A real poet is a friend to man,