 | Poems by George P. Morris |  |
118
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.
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.
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.
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.
119
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.
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.
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.
| Poems by George P. Morris | |