Classic Poem

FIVE — AND — THIRTY black slaves,
— Half-a-hundred white,
All their duty but to sing
— For their Queen's delight,
Now with throats of thunder,
— Now with dulcet lips,
While she rules them royally
— With her finger-tips!

When she quits her palace,
— All the slaves are dumb —
Dumb with dolor till the Queen
— Back to Court is come:
Dumb the throats of thunder,
— Dumb the dulcet lips,
Lacking all the sovereignty
— Of her finger-tips.

Dusky slaves and pallid
— Ebon slaves and white,
When the Queen was on her throne
— How you sang to-night!
Ah, the throats of thunder!
— Ah, the dulcet lips!
Ah, the gracious tyrannies
— Of her finger-tips!

Silent, silent, silent,
— All your voices now;
Was it then her life alone
— Did your life endow?
Waken, throats of thunder!
— Waken, dulcet lips!
Touched to immortality
— By her finger-tips.