 | The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich |  |
301
“WHEN FROM THE TENSE CHORDS OF THAT MIGHTY LYRE”
January, 1892
I
When from the tense chords of that mighty lyreThe Master's hand, relaxing, falls away,
And those rich strings are silent for all time,
Then shall Love pine, and Passion lack her fire,
And Faith seem voiceless. Man to man shall say,
“Dead is the last of England's lords of rhyme.”
II
Yet—stay! there 's one, a later laurelled brow,With purple blood of poets in his veins;
Him has the Muse claimed; him might Marlowe own;
Greek Sappho's son!—men's praises seek him now.
Happy the realm where one such voice remains!
His the dropped wreath and the unenvied throne.
302
III
The wreath the world gives, not the mimic wreathThat chance might make the gift of king or queen.
O finder of undreamed-of harmonies!
Since Shelley's lips were hushed by cruel death,
What lyric voice so sweet as this has been
Blown to us on the winds from over seas?
| The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | |