Pleasant as sound of falling rain among
The summer leaves, and the sweet as after rain
The moist earth is when the sun shines again,
The measure and the music of his song.
Not to his muse, most gentle, may belong
The throb of passion, the wild pulse of pain;
Upon his perfect purity no stain;
And the world's turmoil would but do him wrong.
But with a tender ministry he glides
Into our hearts, and like an angel guest
That presence evermore with us abides
With healing, strength; with comforting and rest.
O, bard beloved! the blessed labor thine
To show thine art how pure, and how divine.

He sang the New World's song unto the Old:
The fading story of a fading race
Revived upon his lips in numbers bold,
Art without art, and grace untaught of grace.
With master hand that wakened and controlled,
The lyres of other lands he made his own,
And gave the added magic of his tone,
Their golden legends touched with finer gold.
Well won thy bays-and not alone the bays,
O, poet! great as is thy meed of praise,
Greater the love that follows after thee
To that new life, new land; where, with calm eyes,
And brow serene, there greets thee lovingly,
Thy Dante, in the gates of Paradise!