Bryant.

        Poets they do pursue each theme,
        Under a gentle head of steam,
        Save one who needed fierce fire on,
        The brilliant, pasionate Byron.
        His child Harold's pilgrimage,
        Forever will the world engage;
        He fought with glory to release
        From Turkish yoke the isles of Greece,
        Its glories oft by him were sung,
        This wondrous bard, alas, died young.

        And Millar poet of Sierras,
        For bold deeds he doth prepare us,
        And now he lives by the golden gate,
        Honored in California's state,
        To poet 'tis position grand,
        Commissioner of Forest land.

        Genius of Dryden and of Pope,
        Both did take a mighty scope,
        The first he virgil did translate,
        The second showed us Troys fate.
        On English themes they oft did sing
        And high their muses flight did wing.

Of their great names I may record but few;
He who beholds the Ocean white with sails
And copies each confuses all the view,
        He paints too much - and fails.

His picture shows no high, emphatic light,
Its shadows in full mass refuse to fall,
And as its broken details meet the light
        Men turn it to the wall.

Of those great names but few may pass my lips,
For he who speaks of Salamis then sees
Not men who there commanded Grecian ships -
        But grand Themistocles!

Yet some I mark, and these discreetly take
To grace my verse through duty and design,
As one notes barks that leave the broadest wake
        Upon the stormy Brine.

These rise before me; and there Mason stands
The Constitution-maker firm and bold,
Like...

        Like fruit that's large and ripe and mellow,
        Sweet and luscious is Longfellow,
        Melodious songs he oft did pour
        And high was his Excelsior.
        He shows in his Psalm of Life
        The folly of our selfish strife,
        With Hiawatha we bewail
        His suffering in great Indian tale.
        Indian nation was forlorn
        Till great spirit planted corn;
        His story of Evangeline
        It is a tale of love divine.

The harp has fallen from the master's hand;
Mute is the music, voiceless are the strings,
    Save such faint discord as the wild wind flings
In sad aeolian murmurs through the land.
The tide of melody, whose billows grand
    Flowed o'er the world in clearest utterings,
    Now, in receding current, sobs and sings
That song we never wholly understand.
* * O, eyes where glorious prophecies belong,
    And gracious reverence to humbly bow,
And kingly spirit, proud, and pure, and strong;
    O, pallid minstrel with the laureled brow,
And lips so long attuned to sacred song,
    How sweet must be the Heavenly anthem now!