  Bard of the soaring soul, Of thought sublime, serene,— Lord of the Pleiades And all the stars between! And further still thy sway:— Thy realm, that vaster deep Where galaxies unseen Their radiant courses keep. With measure masterful Thou raisest our desire, Till to thy boldest flight Our eager souls aspire. But not alone thy thought In star-sprent spaces strown; Thy largess manifold Hath nearer harvests sown. Ah! yes;—a richer crop We gather, in thy song, Than ever homeward brought The Wain with “oxen strong.” Forerunners, and May-Days, To the dear earth belong, And grace our lowliest ways. Concord, and Boston “Hymn,”— They stir our pulses still, And hold, for Freedom’s need, The patriot heart and will. The Problem,—Each and All, Thy kind theology! And like the Lord Christ’s heart, Thy sweet Apology. The Dirge,—the Threnody, Our tenderest tears unseal;— We know their loneliness, And all their sorrow feel. To Virtue’s holiest heights Leads, still, thy dauntless strain, And on our follies falls “Its beautiful disdain.” And Merlin’s mighty rhyme, Our largest thoughts find room, O World-Soul seer sublime! But little need hast thou Of tribute we may bring;— Thy fame hath Eastertide With each returning Spring. The centuries shall guard The glory of thy verse, And worthier song than ours Its golden notes rehearse. Thou buildest thy renown With ageless masonry:— Monadnock’s granite walls Thy monument shall be!
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