To J. P.

John Pierpont, the eloquent preacher and poet of Boston

NOT as a poor requital of the joy

With which my childhood heard that lay of thine,

Which, like an echo of the song divine

At Bethlehem breathed above the Holy Boy,

Bore to my ear the Airs of Palestine,—

Not to the poet, but the man I bring

In friendship’s fearless trust my offering:

How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see,

Yet well I know that thou hast deemed with me

Life all too earnest, and its time too short

For dreamy ease and Fancy’s graceful sport;

And girded for thy constant strife with wrong,

Like Nehemiah fighting while he wrought

The broken walls of Zion, even thy song

Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought!

1843.