Patriot and Poet
O, cold and languid blood! I took no part
In that great welcome; made a distant stand
Behind the crowd that rush'd to grasp the hand:
I raised no shout to greet the patriot heart.—
And so again, when other pulses start—
Touch'd with the magic of the poet's wand—
I let the tumult run from strand to strand,
And only read his line, adore his art—
Yet I a thousand times have thank'd my star,
That I have known this year of Sixty-four,
And live to see that Nature's nobles are
Now honour'd as they never were before:
The year that rang when Garibaldi came;
That sought to gild even Shakspeare's golden name.
In that great welcome; made a distant stand
Behind the crowd that rush'd to grasp the hand:
I raised no shout to greet the patriot heart.—
And so again, when other pulses start—
Touch'd with the magic of the poet's wand—
I let the tumult run from strand to strand,
And only read his line, adore his art—
Yet I a thousand times have thank'd my star,
That I have known this year of Sixty-four,
And live to see that Nature's nobles are
Now honour'd as they never were before:
The year that rang when Garibaldi came;
That sought to gild even Shakspeare's golden name.
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