Memoirs of Anne C. L. Botta/To Fitz-Greene Halleck

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 't is given To lift our spirits from the dust, Back to their native heaven. But there is one among the throng Not passed 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. The lyre whose high heroic notes A thousand hearts have stirred Lies mute---the skilful hand no more Awakes one slumbering chord. O poet, rouse thee from thy dreams! Wake from the voiceless slumbers, And once again give to the breeze The music of thy numbers. Sing! for our country claims her bards, She listens for thy strains; Sing! for upon our jarring earth Too much of discord reigns.