Not to flatter Kings,
Not to serve a Court,
Born for nobler things
Than to make them sport,--
Loyal gentle kind,
Yet honest frank and free,
Pure in life and mind
Must the Poet be.

Meekness at his heart,
With triumph on his brow!
This, the Christian's part,
In his daily vow;
Zealous for the best
His earnest spirit can,
As, at God's behest,
Swift to gladden Man.

Honour thou the Gift,
Count it no man's slave;
To the Lord uplift
What His bounty gave;
Let thy spirit spring
Up to Heaven's gate,
There on quivering wing
Song to consecrate!

Song,-- it soothes the heart;
Song,-- it charms the world;
Song,-- it is a dart
By a giant hurl'd;
Song,-- a torrent's strength
In its force is found,
When, uproused at length,
Nations hear the sound.

Hark! they hear, and feel,
And may sleep no more;
Hark! the patriot peal
Rings from shore to shore;
And, in danger's hour,
Stands the Poet then
Girt about with power
As a king of men.

At his burning spell
Quakes the solid shore,
And with surging swell
Rises Ocean's roar,
Till the People's will
Like a storm is heard,
Conjured by the skill
Of their Poet's word.

At his gentle voice
All that storm is calm,
And the heav'ns rejoice,
And the breeze is balm,
And Hosannas rise
From a Nation's heart,
Flaming to the skies
Through the Poet's art!

Art?-- it is his breath,
That song-burst of the Soul;
Art?-- it might be death
His yearnings to control;
Not by such a name
Call the glorious birth
Of this heavenly flame
Lit to kindle earth:
As his heart may glow,
Freely must his song
Like an overflow
Gush out fresh and strong;
No constraint be there
His energies to tire,
Zeal and love and prayer
String the Poet's lyre!