The poet may tread earth sadly,
Yet is he dreamland's king,
And the fays at his bidding gladly
Visions of beauty bring;
But his joys will be rarer, finer,
Away from this earthly stage,
When he, who is now a minor.
Comes of age.
Roll on, O! tardy cycle,
Whose death is the poet's birth;
Blow soon, great trump of Michael,
Shatter the crust of earth;
Let the slow spheres turn faster;
Hasten the heritage
Of him, who, as life's true master,
Comes of age.
