Page:Poems (1853).djvu/156

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TO A SILENT POET.

I see the sons of Genius rise,
 The nobles of our land;
And foremost in the gathering ranks
 I see the poet band.

That Priesthood of the beautiful,
 To whom alone ’tis given
To lift our spirits from the dust,
 Back to their native heaven.

But there is one amid the throng,
 Not past his manhood’s prime;
The laurel wreath upon his brow,
 Has greener grown with time.

And in his eye yet glows the light
 Of the celestial fire;
But cast beside him, on the earth,
 Is his neglected lyre.