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.