To a Poet

O poet, would'st thou make a name That ne'er will die, But be coeval with the lights In yonder sky?

Strike not a single, trembling chord, In the heart-lyre; But wake the full and sweet accord Of every wire.

Of joy, of grief, of hopeless love And pining care, Of terror, pain, and deep remorse, And wild despair.

Of Hope, of Faith, of Piety: Each fibre move; But yet the sweetest note shall be The note of Love.

Strike! poet! strike each quiv'ring chord, In that strange lyre, Then, men thy golden songs will hoard, Till time expire.