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.