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. 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. 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. 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. 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.