THE POET'S MISSION.

And with innocent wife-like glances
Close beside my spirit dances,

As a sister Ariel ought,
Tripping at her wanton will,
With unpremeditated skill,

Like a gushing mountain rill,

Or a bright Bacchante, reeling

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Through the flights of thought and feeling, Half concealing, half revealing

Whatsoe'er of spirit's fire,

Beauty kindling with desire,

Can be caught in Word's attire!

Evoe! Fons Parnassi,

Fons ebrie Parnassi.

THE POET'S MISSION.

NOT to flatter Kings,

Not to serve a Court,

Born for nobler things

Than to make them sport,

Loyal gentle kind,

Yet honest frank and free,

Pure in life and mind

Must the Poet be.

Meekness at his heart,

With triumph on his brow!

K

This, the Christian's part,

Is his daily vow ; Zealous for the best

His earnest spirit can, As, at God's behest,

Swift to gladden Man.

Honour thou the Gift,

Count it no man's slave;

To the LORD uplift

What His bounty gave;

Let thy spirit spring

Up to Heaven's gate, There on quivering wing SONG to consecrate !

Song, it soothes the heart; Song,-it charms the world;

Song, it is a dart

By a giant hurl'd;
Song,-a torrent's strength
In its force is found,

When, uproused at length,
Nations hear the sound.

Hark! they hear, and feel,

And may sleep no more;

Hark! the patriot peal

Rings from shore to shore;

THE POET'S MISSION.

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And, in danger's hour,
Stands the Poet then
Girt about with power
As a king of men.

At his burning spell

Quakes the solid shore,
And with surging swell
Rises Ocean's roar,
Till the PEOPLE'S will
Like a storm is heard,

Conjured by the skill

Of their Poet's word.

At his gentle voice

All that storm is calm, And the heav'ns rejoice,

And the breeze is balm, And Hosannas rise

From a Nation's heart,

Flaming to the skies

Through the Poet's art!

Art-it is his breath,

That song-burst of the Soul;

Art?—it might be death

His yearnings to control;

Not by such a name

Call the glorious birth

Of this heavenly flame

Lit to kindle earth: