 | The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley |  |
268
BRYANT
The harp has fallen from the master's hand;Mute is the music, voiceless are the strings,
Save such faint discord as the wild wind flings
In sad Æolian murmurs through the land.
The tide of melody, whose billows grand
Flowed o'er the world in clearest utterings,
Now, in receding current, sobs and sings
That song we never wholly understand.
[OMITTED] O, eyes where glorious prophecies belong,
And gracious reverence to humbly bow,
And kingly spirit, proud, and pure, and strong;
O, pallid minstrel with the laureled brow,
And lips so long attuned to sacred song,
How sweet must be the Heavenly anthem now!
| The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley | |