The Silent Melody

" Brinfr in o my brokeu harp," he said; " We botb are wrectte - but as ye wil! - Thongh all its ringing ton es Lave fled, Their echoes linter round it Btül; It had soiiie golden strings, l know, But that was long- liow long !- ago. " I cannot sce its tarnished gold, I cannot hear its vaniehed tone, Scarco eau my trein bling ftngers hold The pillar, d fíame so long their own; We bolh are wrecks - a while ago It had gome siiver strings, I know. " But on thcm Time too long bas played The solerán ttrain that Lnows no change, And where of old my fingers strayed The cbords they flnd are new and strange - Yes ! iron stringe - I know - I know - We beth are wreek s of long ago. 1 We both are wrecia - a Büattered pair - Strange to ourselves in Time'a ditguise. . . . Wbat say 3e to tne love-sick air That brougut the tears froin Marian's eyes ? Ay ! trust roe - under breaste of snow Hearts coukl be melted long ago I ' Or wül ye hear tbc storm-Bong'ö eranh That froni bis dreanis the soldier woke And bade him face the lightning's flash When battle clouds in thunder broke ? . . . Wrecks - nought but wreeks ! - the time was wben We two were worth a thousand men !" And so the broken harp they bring, With pilying miles that none could blatne; Alas ! there's uot 11 single stiicg Of anl that filled the tarnisht d fraae ! But soe ! liko childreu overjoyed, His fingers rambling through the void ! 'Iclasptbee! Ay . . . mine ancient lyio . . Nay, guiüe my wandering fi"gers . . . There They love to dally with the wiro As Ieaac played with Eaau's hair. . . . Hirsh ! ye shall hear the f amous tune That Marian called ' The Breath of June 1' " And so they softly gather round; Rapt in his tunef xü trance he seems; His fingers move: but EOt a sound ! A. silence like the song of dreams. . . . 1 There ! ye have heard the air," he cries, 1 That broBght the tears from Marian's eyes !" Ali. pnrile not at his fond eonceit, Nor deern h!s fancy wroxighc in vain; TO him the imreal Fouuds are sweet - No difcord mars the silent etrain Scored on life's lateet, star-lit i)ag? - Tho voiceless melody of age. Sweet are the lips of all who Bing, When Natiire's music breatb.es unsought, But never yet could voice or strmg So truly ghape our tendereet thought As when, by life's decayii'g fire, Our fíDgers sweop tbe striugless lyre!