Dear consecrated page! methinks in thee
The patriot's eye hath left eternal light,
Beaming o'er every line with influence bright
A grace unknown before, nor due to me:
And still delighted fancy loves to see
The flattering smile which prompt indulgence might
(Even while he read what lowliest Muse could write)
Have hung upon that lip, whose melody
Truth, sense, and liberty had called their own
For strength of mind and energy of thought,
With all the loveliest weakness of the heart,
An union beautiful in him had shewn;
And yet where'er the eye of taste found aught
To praise, he loved the critic's gentlest part.