ON A PEN OF THOMAS STARR KING.
This is the reed the dead musician dropped,
With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden;
The prompt allegro of its music stopped,
Its melodies, unbidden.
But who shall finish the unfinished strain,
Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder,
And bid the slender barrel breathe again—
An organ-pipe of thunder?
His pen! what humbler memories cling about
Its golden curves; what shapes and laughing graces
Slipped from its point when his full heart went out
In smiles and courtly phrases.
