ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

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,
  And noisy Fame is proud to win them: 
Alas for those that 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
  On nameless sorrow’s churchyard pillow.

O hearts that break and give no sign
  Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
Till Death pours out his longed-for wine
  Slow-dropped from Misery’s crushing presses,—­
If singing breath or echoing chord
  To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
  As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

A LAMENT.

O World!  O Life!  O Time! 
On whose last steps I climb,
  Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime? 
  No more,—­O nevermore!

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight: 
  Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
  No more,—­O nevermore!

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

“WHAT CAN AN OLD MAN DO BUT DIE?”

  Spring it is cheery,
  Winter is dreary,
Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;
  When he’s forsaken,
  Withered and shaken,
What can an old man do but die?

  Love will not clip him,
  Maids will not lip him,
Maud and Marian pass him by;
  Youth it is sunny,
  Age has no honey,—­
What can an old man do but die?

  June it was jolly,
  O for its folly! 
A dancing leg and a laughing eye! 
  Youth may be silly,
  Wisdom is chilly,—­
What can an old man do but die?

  Friends they are scanty,
  Beggars are plenty,
If he has followers, I know why;
  Gold’s in his clutches
  (Buying him crutches!)—­
What can an old man do but die?

THOMAS HOOD.

OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.

Over the hill to the poor-house I’m trudgin’ my weary way—­
I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray—­
I, who am smart an’ chipper, for all the years I’ve told,
As many another woman that’s only half as old.

Over the hill to the poor-house—­I can’t quite make it clear! 
Over the hill to the poor-house—­it seems so horrid queer! 
Many a step I’ve taken a-toilin’ to and fro,
But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.