She ceased, yet on her parted lips A happy smile abode, As if the sweetness of her song Yet lingered whence it flowed; But, for a while, her bosom heaved, She was the same no more, The light and spirit fled; she stood As she had stood before; Unheard, unheeded to her ear The shouts of rapture came, A voice had once more power to thrill, That only spoke her name. Unseen, unheeded at her feet, Fell many a bright bouquet; A single flower, in silence given, Was once more sweet than they; _Her_ heart had with her song returned To days for ever gone, Ere Woman’s gift of Fame was her’s, The Many for the One. E’en thus; O, Earth, before thee Thy Poet Singers stand, And bear the soul upon their songs Unto its native land. And even thus, with loud acclaim, The praise of skill, of art, Is dealt to those who only speak The language of the heart! While they who love and listen best, Can little guess or know The wounds that from the Singer’s breast Have bid such sweetness flow; They know not mastership must spring From conflict and from strife. “These, these are but the songs they sing;” They are the Singer’s life! A LITTLE PLACE IN NORFOLK.