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, 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, - 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 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 Longed-For Wine Slow-Dropped From Misery'S Crushing Presses, - 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!