She opes her temple to the welcome guest,
And her white pulses feel, with answering glow,
The kindred breath of the young presence flow!
Such moments, bright as hours in heaven that bring
To spirits life, a pure and deathless thing,
Cheer him who, warm with poesy’s true flame,
Rears in his bower of song the birds of fame;
He whose wreathed locks the lyric laurels wear
Green with immortal dew and cloudless air;
Whose harp-chords wildly echoed back the swell