To the Poet Maikof

Thy soul entrancing lyre,
Thy songs of purity,
Have borne to us but notes of Good,
Peace, Hope, and Charity.

To please the fickle crowd,
False notes thou ne’er didst sing;
Nor to the passions of the mob
Thy sacred freedom fling.

Thou’st sung for fifty years,
Crowned with immortal bay,
A song to raise the soul of man
And cheer his upward way.

Oh, could these chords prolong
To us thy legacy,
With what unrivalled aims endowed
Would our true poets be!