[Written for the Sentinel.]

MY HARP

A silent harp is mine. Its strings are still,The while they wait their unknown master's will.Dumbly it stands, entreating silentlyEach passing hand to try its chords, and seeIf he whose magic touch shall music wakeMay not be near. But, though they rust and break,The strings are voiceless. Till its master comeMy harp stands waiting—ready, aye, but dumb.

A jangling harp is mine. A curious eyeEspied it, and upon it carelesslySmote with unguarded hand, and jarring soundSprang from its strings, where silence so profoundBefore had rested, and its peace has fledAs on swift wings, and discord reigns instead.Oh, that some gentle hand would calm evoke,Or e'en the former silence, ere it spoke.

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FROM OUR EXCHANGES
June 12, 1909
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