Mark yonder cot, among the trees,
Where flow’rs in native freedom twine,
Whose fragrance courts the healthy breeze
That sheds around their scent divine.
Within that humble cot thou’lt find
More pow’r than dwells ’neath gilded dome;
The wealth of wit, the pow’r of mind,
For there behold a poet’s home.
While counted gold, ’neath bolt and bar,
To hide from all the miser tries,
The poet’s wealth—more precious far—
In open page, uncounted lies.
The pearls of thought, the mental ore,
By fancy’s fire to gold refined,
The poet makes no hidden store,
But shares his wealth with all mankind.
Then wealth, and pomp, and pow’r give way,
And warriors bold with flag unfurl’d;
A king can but one nation sway—
The poet’s rule is o’er the world!
Then honour be, without a blot,
Around his path where’er he roam,
But where he loves and wanders not
Be blessings!—on the poet’s home.