Morn on her rosy couch awoke,
    Enchantment led the hour,
And mirth and music drank the dews
    That freshen'd Beauty's flower,
Then from her bower of deep delight,
    I heard a young girl sing,
"Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
    For 'tis a holy thing."

The Sun in noon-day heat rose high,
    And on with heaving breast,
I saw a weary pilgrim toil
    Unpitied and unblest,
Yet still in trembling measures flow'd
    Forth from a broken string,
"Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
    For 'tis a holy thing."

'Twas night, and Death the curtains drew,
    'Mid agony severe,
While there a willing spirit went
    Home to a glorious sphere,

Yet still it sigh'd, even when was spread
    The waiting Angel's wing,
"Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
    For 'tis a holy thing."