How deftly he handles the retort and decanter! 
          Makes lightning and thunder would scare Tam O’Shanter;
          Makes feathers as heavy as lead, in a jar,
          And eliminates spirits from coal and from tar.

          By a touch of his finger he’ll turn lead or tin
          To invisible gas, and then back again;
          He will set them aflame, as in the last day,
          When all things are lit by the Sun’s hottest ray.

          With oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen,—­all—­
          No gas can resist his imperative call—­
          He’ll solidify, liquefy, or turn into ice;
          Or all of them re-convert, back in a trice.

          Amid oxides and alkalies, bromides and salts,
          He makes them all dance in a chemical waltz;
          And however much he with acids may play,
          There’s never a drop stains his pure mortal clay.

          He well knows what things will affect one another;
          What acts as an enemy, and what as a brother;
          He feels quite at home with all chemic affinities,
          And treats them respectfully, as mystic Divinities.

          His wisdom is spread from far Texas to Maine;
          For thousands on thousands have heard him explain
          The secrets of Nature, and all her arcana,
          From the youth of the Gulf, to the youth of Montana.

          In Paris, Doremus may compress’d powder compound,
          Or, at home, wrap the Obelisk with paraffine round;
          Or may treat Toxicology ever anew,
          To enrich the bright students of famous Bellevue.

          He believes in the spirits of all physical things,
          And can make them fly round as if they had wings;
          But ask him to show you the Spirit of Man—­
          He hesitates slightly, saying, “See!—­if you can.”

          Wherever he comes there always is cheer;
          If absent, you miss him; you’re glad when he’s near;
          His voice is a trumpet that stirreth the blood;
          You feel that he’s cheery, and you know that he’s good.

          No doors in the city have swung open so wide,
          To artists at home, and to those o’er the tide;
          As, to Mario, Sontag, Badiali, Marini,
          To Nilsson and Phillips, Rachel and Salvini.

          Much, much does he owe, for the grace of his life,
          To the influence ever of his beautiful wife;
          She, so grand and so stately, so true and so kind,
          So lovely in person and so charming in mind!