The Sacred Poet

Art thou a mouth for the immortal mind?A voice that shall be heard when ages sleepIn cold oblivion? when the rich man's pomp,And all the ambitious strivings of the crowdShall be forgotten? Art thou well convincedThat such a gift is thine?Bow thee to dust,And take this honour from the hand of GodIn deep humility, worm as thou art,And all unworthy. Ask for naught beside,Though worldlings scorn thy lot.Prosperity,Such as earth names, what are its gauds to thee?Accustom'd to the crystal and the goldOf poesy, that, like a sea of glass,Doth compass thee around. Look up! look up!Baptized and set apart for Heaven's high will,Search for its lessons. List when trembling dawnInstructs Aurora; muse when night to nightDoth show forth knowledge; when the folded flowerTaketh its lesson of the dews that stealInto its bosom, like the mother's hymnO'er the tired infant; and thine ear shall drinkA music-tone to solace every woundThat earth has made.Then strike thy hallow'd harpFor unborn ages, and with trumpet-tone

Wake the immortal mind to highest hopes,And be the teacher of what cannot die.Yea, wear thy birthright nobly on thy brow,And nerve the wing for God.