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 'tis given
  To lift our spirits from the dust,
  Back to their native heaven.
 
  But there is one amid the throng,
  Not past 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 skillful hand no more
  Awakes one slumbering chord.
 
  Oh poet! rouse thee from thy dreams!
  Wake from thy voiceless slumbers!
  And once again give to the breeze
  The music of thy numbers.
 
  Sing, for our country claims her bard,
  She listens for thy strains;
  Sing, for upon our jarring earth,
  Too much of discord reigns.