Let thy bright brow and blushing cheek confess in this sweet hour,—
Let thy full heart, poor guilty one, whom the scroll of pardon hath just reached,—
Thy wet glad face, O mother, with news of a far-off child,—
Thy strong and manly delight, pilgrim of other shores,
When the dear voice of thy betrothed speaketh in the letter of affection,—
Let the young poet, exulting in his lay, and hope (how false) of fame,
While watching at deep midnight, he buildeth up the verse,—
Let the calm child of genius, whose name shall never die,
For that the transcript of his mind hath made his thoughts immortal,—
Let these, let all, with no faint praise, with no light gratitude, confess