Chapter I

Ho, poet of the soul refined!
The muse within that soul enshrined,
Think'st thou to mould unto thy mind
Base, common clay?

Within the church--most holy place--
Endowed of Heaven's especial grace,
The weeds of evil grow apace,
Why not without?

II.

And yet--tis passing sad that rhyme,
Most fitting garb for theme sublime,
Should trumpet, in high sounding chime,
The thoughts of wrong.

With eagle flights all may not soar,
Nor bask in fields of richest lore,
Yet, poesy a balm should pour
O'er worldly woes.