Hushed was the voice, but still its accents thrilled
The throbbing hearts its lingering sweetness filled.
The simple story which a tear repays
Asks not to share the noisy breath of praise.
A trance-like stillness,—scarce a whisper heard,
No tinkling teaspoon in its saucer stirred;
A deep-drawn sigh that would not be suppressed,
A sob, a lifted kerchief told the rest.
“Come now, Dictator,” so the lady spoke,
“You too must fit your shoulder to the yoke;
You'll find there 's something, doubtless, if you look,
To serve your purpose,—so, now take the book.”
“Ah, my dear lady, you must know full well,
‘Story, God bless you, I have none to tell.’
To those five stories which these pages hold
You all have listened,—every one is told.
There 's nothing left to make you smile or weep,—
A few grave thoughts may work you off to sleep.”
