To Fitz-Greene Halleck

          I see the sons of genius rise
             The nobles of our land,
          And foremost in the gathering ranks
             I see the poet-band.
          That priesthood of the Beautiful
             To whom alone 't is given
          To lift our spirits from the dust,
             Back to their native heaven.
          But there is one among the throng
             Not passed his manhood's prime,
          The laurel-wreath upon his brow
             Has greener grown with time;
          And in his eye yet glows the light
             Of the celestial fire,
          But cast beside him on the earth
             Is his neglected lyre.
          The lyre whose high heroic notes
             A thousand hearts have stirred
          Lies mute---the skilful hand no more
             Awakes one slumbering chord.
          O poet, rouse thee from thy dreams!
             Wake from the voiceless slumbers,
          And once again give to the breeze
             The music of thy numbers.
          Sing! for our country claims her bards,
             She listens for thy strains;
          Sing! for upon our jarring earth
             Too much of discord reigns.

This work was published before January 1, 1926, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.