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Our POETICAL FAVORITES.
E 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,
And noisy fame is proud to win them; Alas for those who never sing,
But die with all their music in them !
Nay, grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts' sad story; Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep
O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep
O’er nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.
O hearts that break and give no sign
Save-whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his cordial wine,
Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses ! If singing breath or echoing cord
To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven !
OLIVER W. HOLMES.