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!