True-hearted poet, I foresee in thee
The dawning streaks of that long-sunken sun
Which blazed on sturdy England in the time
Of Queen Elizabeth. No mean conceits,
No maudlin sorrows in affected rhyme,
Cumber thy verse: thine eye of faith is clear,
And reads God's goodness in the humblest flower
That opes its timid eyelid to the dawn.
We need such poets,—earnest, truthful men,
As thou art always; men who look on life
But as the means to a most glorious end;
The stepping-stone to Heaven; the sharp trial
That fits the soul for its high destiny.
Like loving sisters, wand'ring hand in hand,
Philosophy and Poetry attend
And wait upon thee, as thou turnest o'er
The voilet's leaves, within whose modest heart
Thou seest a portion of the pulse which throbs
Through the great frame of nature. Burning words,
When, David-like, thou smit'st the ponderous bulk
Of some gigantic error, fly like sparks
Out from the fiery furnace of thy heart,—
Each one a torch wherewith the bright-eyed Truth
Lights up the caves where Wrong and Falsehood dwell.