Such music, the enchantment of all time,

Until the singer, leaving the sublime,

The orphic song half sung, had fled its sphere!

Too late, too late, our tardy honours now,

Wreathing vain laurel on thy calm dead brow.

George L. Moore.


Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.


All rights reserved.