Pierpont

Erect in form, as one whose spirit free
Ne'er bent to any, less than God, the knee —
Crowned with the glory of his silver hair,
A nobler diadem than monarchs wear —
Behold the Bard, whose smoothly flowing line
Rings with the cadenced "Airs of Palestine!"
Whether in psalms he chants Jehovah's praise,
Or to old Freedom consecrates his lays,
Or mourns the child, whose "bright sunshiny head"
Too soon was pillowed with the silent dead,
Or strives, of self forgetful, to unbind
The chains that shackle the inebriate's mind,
Or, with bold words whose scath is like a ban,
Condemns the tramplers of his fellow-man,
Or laughs to shame the idiot Pretense,
That from the public walks crowds common sense —
In every phase his varied verse may wear,
In every change of custom, here or there,
To Truth, to Right, to Duty ever leal
He keeps, like Abdiel, his love, his zeal;
Himself that wonder, since the world began,
A self-reliant, downright honest man.

Hail, true philanthropist! Hail, honored bard! 
No soul like thine shall miss the great reward. 
True to thy lofty aim, nor hopes nor fears 
Turned thee aside through all the weary years, 
Nor damped the ardor of that holy zeal 
Which through all trials sought thy neighbor's weal, 
Nor dimmed the faith that ever from above 
Drew strength and patience for thy work of love.

Poet and prophet! o'er whose classic head
Their frosts and honors threescore years have shed,
Long may we welcome, from that harp of thine,
Airs not less sweet than those of Palestine!
Long may our souls, with kindred ardor thrill
As Warren speaks, through thee, from Bunker's Hill! 
Long, at the antics of thy " Golden Calf " 
Laugh may we, and grow wiser as we laugh: 
And though, at length, from circles such as this, 
Thy manly form and full rich voice we miss, 
And tremulous lips, in broken accents say, 
"Woe ! for the strength and glory passed away!" 
Still shall thy memory, like a sunbeam, dart 
Its frequent brightness o'er the sorrowing heart; 
Still from thy kindling words shall courage flow To those who strike for periled Right a blow ; Still to the sad inebriate whisper hope, 
As his weak hands for life's lost treasures grope ;
Still on the billowy anthem lift the soul 
While waves of music from the organ roll; 
And still, where'er thy honest verse is read, 
Thy praise shall be — "We cannot make him dead!”