Comrade and friend! what tribute shall I render?
Roses and lilies bloom no more for me,
And naught remains, of Fancy's squandered splendor,
Save marish flowers that fringe a sombre sea.

But were each word a rose, each thought a blessing,
Each prayer a coronal of gems divine,
Honor, and love, and perfect trust confessing,
My words, my thoughts, my prayers should all be thine.

For thou hast kept the faith: thy soul undaunted,
Whatever storms might round thee rage and roll,
By one celestial passion still enchanted,
Has held its course right onward to its goal.

No sordid aim, no worldly greed, beguiling,
Could ever wile thy constant heart astray;
No vine clad, Circean, Cyprian Muses smiling,
Allure thy footsteps down the primrose way.

Thou hast not basely gathered thrift with fawning,
Nor worn a laurel that thou hast not won;
But, in thy zenith hour as in thy dawning,
The good thy nature willed thy hand has done.

On thy calm front the waves of trouble, broken,
Have backward surged and left thee regnant still;
Nor tempests of the soul, nor griefs unspoken,
Have e'er had power to shake thy steadfast will.

Thy glory cannot wane — for, were thy singing
Stilled at its source, through all the domes of fame,
In one great organ burst, superbly ringing,
The whole poetic choir would chant thy name!

Thy soul is music: from its deeps o'erflowing, —
With the glad freedom of the wild-bird's wing,
Where icy gales o'er sunlit seas are blowing, —
It sings because divinely born to sing.

No stain is on thy banner: grandly streaming,
Its diamond whiteness leads the tuneful host,
Forever in the front of honor beaming,
And they that know thee best must love thee most.

So rest: thy regal throne thou hast ascended:
The standards blaze, the golden trumpets ring,
And in one voice our loyal hearts are blended —
God bless the Poet, and God save the King!