Rise, said the Master, come unto the feast: She heard the call and rose with willing feet; But thinking it not otherwise than meet For such a bidding to put on her best, She is gone from us for a few short hours 5 Into her bridal closet, there to wait For the unfolding of the palace gate, That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. We have not seen her yet, though we have been Full often to her chamber door, and oft 10 Have listened underneath the postern green, And laid fresh flowers, and whispered short and soft; But she hath made no answer, and the day From the clear west is fading fast away. _Henry Alford._ CCCI _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, 5 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: 10 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 15 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 cordial wine, Slow-dropped from misery’s crushing presses! 20 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! _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ CCCII _A THANKSGIVING._ Lord, in this dust thy sovereign voice First quickened love divine; I am all thine--thy care and choice, My very praise is thine. I praise Thee, while thy providence 5 In childhood frail I trace, For blessings given, ere dawning sense Could seek or scan thy grace; Blessings in boyhood’s marvelling hour, Bright dreams and fancyings strange; 10 Blessings, when reason’s awful power Gave thought a bolder range; Blessings of friends, which to my door Unasked, unhoped, have come; And choicer still, a countless store 15 Of eager smiles at home. Yet, Lord, in memory’s fondest place I shrine those seasons sad, When looking up, I saw thy face In kind austereness clad. 20