But she hath made no answer, and the day
From the clear west is fading fast away.
Henry Alford.
CCCI
THE VOICELESS.
We count the broken lyres that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,
But o’er their silent sister’s breast
The wild flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string, 5
And noisy fame is proud to win them;