| I LOVE the old melodious lays | |
| Which softly melt the ages through, | |
| The songs of Spenser's golden days, | |
| Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase, | |
| Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew. | 5 |
| |
| Yet, vainly in my quiet hours | |
| To breathe their marvellous notes I try; | |
| I feel them, as the leaves and flowers | |
| In silence feel the dewy showers, | |
| And drink with glad still lips the blessing of the sky. | 10 |
| |
| The rigor of a frozen clime, | |
| The harshness of an untaught ear, | |
| The jarring words of one whose rhyme | |
| Beats often Labor's hurried time, | |
| Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here. | 15 |
| |
| Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, | |
| No rounded art the lack supplies; | |
| Unskilled the subtle lines to trace, | |
| Or softer shades of Nature's face, | |
| I view her common forms with unanointed eyes. | 20 |
| |
| Nor mine the seer-like power to show | |
| The secrets of the heart and mind; | |
| To drop the plummet-line below | |
| Our common world of joy and woe, | |
| A more intense despair or brighter hope to find. | 25 |
| |
| Yet here at least an earnest sense | |
| Of human right and weal is shown; | |
| A hate of tyranny intense, | |
| And hearty in its vehemence, | |
| As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own. | 30 |
| |
| O Freedom! if to me belong | |
| Nor mighty Milton's gift divine, | |
| Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song, | |
| Still with a love as deep and strong | |
| As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine! | 35 |
