The Poet

Gather all kindreds of this boundless realm
To speak a common tongue in thee! Be thou—
Heart, pulse, and voice, whether pent hate o’erwhelm
The stormy speech or young love whisper low.
Cheer them, immitigable battle-drum!
Forth, truth-mailed, to the old unconquered field,
And lure them gently to a laurelled home,
In notes more soft than lutes or viols yield.
Fill all the stops of life with tuneful breath;
Closing their lids, bestow a dirge-like death!