 | The Poems of Sir William Watson |  |
THE KEYBOARD
Five-and-thirty black slaves,
Half-a-hundred white,
All their duty but to sing
For their Queen's delight,
Now with throats of thunder,
Now with dulcet lips,
While she rules them royally
With her finger-tips!
Half-a-hundred white,
All their duty but to sing
For their Queen's delight,
Now with throats of thunder,
Now with dulcet lips,
While she rules them royally
With her finger-tips!
When she quits her palace,
All the slaves are dumb—
Dumb with dolour till the Queen
Back to Court is come:
Dumb the throats of thunder,
Dumb the dulcet lips,
Pining for the despotism
Of her finger-tips.
All the slaves are dumb—
Dumb with dolour till the Queen
Back to Court is come:
Dumb the throats of thunder,
Dumb the dulcet lips,
Pining for the despotism
Of her finger-tips.
Dusky slaves and pallid,
Ebon slaves and white,
When the Queen was on her throne
How they sang to-night!
O the throats of thunder!
O the dulcet lips!
O the gracious tyrannies
Of her finger-tips!
Ebon slaves and white,
When the Queen was on her throne
How they sang to-night!
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O the dulcet lips!
O the gracious tyrannies
Of her finger-tips!
Silent, at her signal,
All their voices now!
Ah, then, did her soul alone
These with souls endow?
Waken, throats of thunder!
Waken, dulcet lips!
Touched to immortality
By her finger-tips.
All their voices now!
Ah, then, did her soul alone
These with souls endow?
Waken, throats of thunder!
Waken, dulcet lips!
Touched to immortality
By her finger-tips.
| The Poems of Sir William Watson | |