Lo! The Poor Indian, Whose Untutored Mind

A Saint In Crape Is Twice A Saint In Lawn.

Music Resembles Poetry, In Each Are Nameless Graces Which No Methods Teach, And Which A Master Hand Alone Can Reach.

Like Bubbles On The Sea Of Matter Borne, They Rise, They Break, And To That Sea Return.

Love, Free As Air, At Sight Of Human Ties, Spreads His Light Wings, And In A Moment Flies.

Charm Strikes The Sight, But Merit Wins The Soul.