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Our POETICAL FAVORITES.

The Voiceless.

WE

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.

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