We praise not now the poet's art, br The rounded beauty of his song; br Who weighs him from his life apart br Must do his nobler nature wrong. br br Not for the eye, familiar grown br With charms to common sight denied, br The marvellous gift he shares alone br With him who walked on Rydal-side; br br Not for rapt hymn nor woodland lay, br Too grave for smiles, too sweet for tears; br We speak his praise who wears to-day br The glory of his seventy years.