Down to this earth the rainbow hues of heaven;
And Oh! to fly upon an angel's wing,
To highly favored bards alone is given —
To weave a deathless wreath of "leaves and flowers"
None but the gifted poet's hand may dare;
To gild with sunshine this bleak world of our's,
And chase its darkness, is the minstrel's care
Bard of our sunny land, and golden sky!
My heart has gladdened o'er thy magic lay,
'Tis like the hymn of seraphim on high.
That once awakened never dies away —
My soul hath drunk it — and it is to me,
Sweet bard! "a draught of immortality!"