WE count the broken lyres that rest br Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, br But o'er their silent sister's breast br The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? br A few can touch the magic string, br And noisy Fame is proud to win them:-- br Alas for those that never sing, br But die with all their music in them! br br Nay, grieve not for the dead alone br Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,-- br Weep for the voiceless, who have known br The cross without the crown of glory! br Not where Leucadian breezes sweep br O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, br But where the glistening night-dews weep br On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.