Let poets in praises heart-swelling and sweet
    With rapture that rises in beautiful song,
  Make sages immortal and ages replete
    With hundreds of heroes who wrestled the wrong;
  All honest men well from the Muses may claim
    The numbers that murmur to merit and worth,
  And so I would fold in the mantles of fame
    The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.

  Let orators over the deeds of the great
    Re-echo the tributes of tenderest praise,
  And over the ashes that slumber in state
    Let peoples their marbles and monuments raise;
  But I, from the frenzied applauses uncouth,
    To those who are chained in the bondage of birth,
  Would flee to surround with the lilies of truth
    The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.

  Let hearts that are grateful in gratitude crown
    The friend of the many and foe of the few;
  Let souls in their secret admiring enthrone
    Whatever a martyr or minion may do;
  But down in my bosom while reasonings reign,
    Of friendship and love there is never a dearth
  For him who is toiling in pleasure or pain,
    The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.

“NATURE HAS A THOUSAND CHOIRS.”

  Nature has a thousand choirs
    Singing in the sylvan shadows,
  And the music of her lyres
    Echoes in the merry meadows;
  Always glad with golden glee
  Sounds her happy melody,
  Swelling wild in fairy measure
  With the songs of purest pleasure.

  Where the dancing fountains play
    Winding warbles shake and shiver,
  And soft carols rise alway
    From the ripples of the river;
  Sweetest voices fondly call
  From the fleecy waterfall,
  And the joyful chimes are creeping
  Where the lovely lake is sleeping.

  Raptures echo in the wood,
    Where the pimpernel reposes;
  Gladness fills the solitude
    Where the blushes kiss the roses;
  Sunny beam and somber gloom
  Utter hymns from bowers of bloom,
  Where the vernal winds are crying
  And the vocal birds are flying.

  O’er the smiling scenes of earth
    Nature throws no sullen weather;
  All her soul is full of mirth,
    Song and springtime walk together;
  For the harps of happy days
  Wake the woodlands with their lays,
  And where lilies white are springing
  Gentle melodies are ringing.

  O, wild Nature, from thy soul
    Fill the human hearts with gladness,
  Till their lives shall gladly troll
    Songs that banish all their sadness! 
  Bathe their breasts with songs of love
  From the Edens found above,
  Till their lips shall sing the story
  Of their happiness and glory!

THE WORKINGMAN.