Lines On A Poet.

How sweet the cadence of his lyre! What melody of words! They strike a pulse within the heart Like songs of forest-birds, Or tinkling of the shepherd's bell Among the mountain-herds. His mind's a cultured garden, Where Nature's hand has sown The flower-seeds of poesy-- And they have freshly grown, Imbued with beauty and perfume To other plants unknown. A bright career's before him-- All tongues pronounce his praise; All hearts his inspiration feel, And will in after-days; For genius breathes in every line Of his soul-thrilling lays. A nameless grace is round him-- A something, too refined To be described, yet must be felt By all of human kind-- An emanation of the soul, That can not be defined. Then blessings on the minstrel-- His faults let others scan: There may be spots upon the sun, Which those may view who can; I see them not--yet know him well A POET AND A MAN.