Ere certain Fate had touched a heart
    By fifty years made cold,
I judged thee, Lyde, and thy art
    O’erblown and over-bold.

But he—but he, of whom bereft
    I suffer vacant days—
He on his shield not meanly left—
    He cherished all thy lays.

Witness the magic coffer stocked
    With convoluted runes
Wherein thy very voice was locked
    And linked to circling tunes.

Witness thy portrait, smoke-defiled,
    That decked his shelter-place.
Life seemed more present, wrote the chip
    Beneath thy well-known face.

And when the grudging days restored
    Him for a breath to home,
He, with fresh crowds of youth, adored
    Thee making mirth in Rome.

Therefore, I humble, join the hosts,
    Loyal and loud, who bow
To thee as Queen of Song—and ghosts,
    For I remember how

Never more rampant rose the Hall
    At thy audacious line
Than when the news came in from Gaul
    Thy son had—followed mine.

But thou didst hide it in thy breast
    And, capering, took the brunt
Of blaze and blare, and launched the jest
    That swept next week the front.

Singer to children! Ours possessed
    Sleep before noon—but thee,
Wakeful each midnight for the rest,
    No holocaust shall free!

Yet they who use the Word assigned,
    To hearten and make whole,
Not less than Gods have served mankind,
    Though vultures rend their soul.