In which the answering heart would speak;
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,
Or the smile light the cheek.
And his, the music, to whose tone
The common pulse of man keeps time,
In cot or castle’s mirth or moan,
In cold or sunny clime.
. . . . . .
Praise to the bard, his words are driven,
Like flower seed by the far wind sown,