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He seized his country's lyre,

With ardent grasp and strong, And made his soul of fire

Dissolve itself in song.


Where Necromancy flings

O'er Eastern lands her spell, Sustained on Fable's wings,

His spirit loves to dwell.


Magician, whose dread spell,

Working in pale moonlight, From superstition's cell

Invokes each satellite !


He hung his harp upon

Philosophy's pure shrine ; And, placed by Nature's throne,

Composed each placid line.


With all that Nature's fire

Can lend to polished art, He strikes his graceful lyre

To thrill or warm the heart.

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Black clouds his forehead bound,

And at his feet were flowers :
Mirth, madness, magic found

In him their keenest powers.


Crowned with perennial flowers,

By wit and genius wove,
He wanders through the bowers

Of fancy and of love.


THERE's poetry among the rocks,

Upon the cloud-capt mountains : There's music in each tiny rill

That flows from springing fountains.
And all is poetry divine,

And all is wondrous fair,
For He who built the heavenly dome

Is always present there.

There's poetry in the deep vale,

Where the mineral water gushes, And the crimson flowers in sunny bowers

Reflect the morning blushes.

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And there, in silence and in shade,

Nature is passing fair ;
For He who made the beauteous world

Is always present there.

The forest is all poetry,

Where the honey bees are singing, And the golden spider his bower of love,

'Neath the green branch, is spinning.
And the rosy morn and purple eve

The umbrageous herbage share,
For He who lit the soft, pale moon,

Is always present there.

There's poetry on the deep sea,

Where the mountain waves are roaring ;
And the young billows clap their hands,

Rejoicing and adoring.
And the phosph'rous sea and ocean's caves

Are in their nature fair ;
For He who made the mighty winds

Is always present there.

There's poetry in the dark clouds,

Where the chain-lightning 's flaming;
And the thunder's voice is heard aloud,

Its Maker's power proclaiming.
But o'er those clouds, and in that sky,

All shines divinely fair ;
For He who forged the thundrous bolt

Is always present there.

There's poetry among the winds,

Where they kiss the spring's first flowers;

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