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 ITHIN a rock, whose shadows linger,
 * At moonlight hours, on Erie’s sea,

Some unseen, Indian spirit’s finger
 * Woke in far times sweet minstrelsy.

’Twas in the summer twilight only,
 * When evening winds the green leaves stirred,

And all beside was mute and lonely
 * Its wild aërial tones were heard.

So I—that fabled rock resembling,
 * With heart as cold, and head as hard—

Appear, although with fear and trembling,
 * At Beauty’s call, as Beauty’s bard.

Yet why despair if winds can summon
 * Minstrels and music when they please?

For who but deems the lips of woman
 * More potent than an evening breeze?

Her lips the magic word have spoken,
 * That bids me call from far and near

Each minstrel-pen, to leave its token
 * Of fealty and of friendship here.

These consecrated leaves are given
 * To you, ye rhyme-composing elves;