By Benjamin S. Parker.
"Hail thou poet occidental,
First in Indiana's Clime--
Whose true passions sentimental,
Outward flowed in living rhyme.
Let no more thy harp, forsaken,
Hang upon the willow tree,
But again its chords awaken
To thy songs blithe melody,
As thou didst in time now olden,
When our Hoosier state was young,
'Ere the praises of these golden
Days of progress yet were sung."