Oh, Warrior Poet! thou before whose eyes
Rose the enchanted realm of the Ideal —
The star-lit land of Fancy, whose fair skies
Bent in unclouded loveliness around thee —
The angel of the world of visions found thee —
Bore thee from the cold Winter of the Real,
And with unfading wreaths of Poesy crowned thee.
Lord of the Lyre and Sword! O, blest wert thou
To live and die, amid thine early dreams!
Nor bay, nor blossom faded from thy brow —