James Dodds (1813–1874)

(To John Hunter)

I HAVE not found so true a Harmony

As crowns this life of thine, my much-loved friend!

See! the bright roses o’er the violets bend;

The oaks with hazels sing in windy glee;

The lawn looks coy up to yon gazing hill;

On the same bough are dove and blackbird seen;

And, as we talk under this alley green,

The robin makes a third, with answering trill.

Within, thy home is meet for such a spot:

Thy youthful dreams—how rare!—have grown to truth;

Still rarer, life keeps fine as dream of youth;

Rarest and best, this harmony is given,—

Thy Real drinks music from Ideal Thought,

And Earth but avenues the gate to Heaven!