To Henry W. Longfellow

I THINK earth's noblest, most pathetic sight
Is some old poet, round whose laurel-crown
The long gray locks are streaming softly down;--
Whose evening, touched by prescient shades of night,
Grows tranquillized, in calm, ethereal light:--
Such, such art thou, O master! worthier grown
In the fair sunset of thy full renown,--
Poising, perchance, thy spiritual wings for flight!
Ah, heaven! why shouldst thou from thy place depart?
God's court is thronged with minstrels, rich with song;
Even now, a new note swells the immaculate choir,--
But thou, whose strains have filled our lives so long,
Still from the altar of thy reverent heart
Let golden dreams ascend, and thoughts of fire!