Sir John Hanmer (1809–1881)

SWEET is thy voice, embowered Nightingale,

But for thy praise would fail my weaker song;

Sweet all thy airy kindred, that belong

To Nature’s happiest haunts, by field or vale;

And some there are, that, in the shadows pale

Of cavernous dim towns, make yearn the throng;

Prisoners are they, and blind, yet seems more strong

The melody of their lives’ remembered tale.

Ye are the accepted poets: wheresoe’er

Your notes have sounded, joy hath thither come,

As flowers to forest wells, serene and clear:

Fame wears ye not, that eats the hearts of some:

Those unambitious accents man doth hear,

And straight the importunate voice of self is done.