while ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountiful providence had granted a new poet to this earth. he likewise, was a native of the valley, but had spent the greater part of his life at a distance from that romantic region, pouring out his sweet music amid the bustle and din of cities. often, however, did the mountains which had been familiar to him in his childhood lift their snowy peaks into the clear atmosphere of his poetry. neither was the great stone face forgotten, for the poet had celebrated it in an ode, which was grand enough to have been uttered by its own majestic lips. this man of genius, we may say, had come down from heaven with wonderful endowments. if he sang of a mountain, the eyes of all mankind beheld a mightier grandeur reposing on its breast, or soaring to its summit, than had before been seen there. if his theme were a lovely lake, a celestial smile had now been thrown over it, to gleam forever on its surface. if it were the vast old sea, even the deep immensity of its dread bosom seemed to swell the higher, as if moved by the emotions of the song. thus the world assumed another and a better aspect from the hour that the poet blessed it with his happy eyes. the creator had bestowed him, as the last best touch to his own handiwork. creation was not finished till the poet came to interpret, and so complete it.