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No din 
Invades the temple of their mind ;—the mirth 
And sighs of men are sounds to them unknown, 
Though well they know the spirit’s inward groan; 
And mortal agonies belong to them 
As well as to their fellow men ; for death 
Hath passed on all who draw the vital breath, 
And where sin is, there doth the law condemn. 
Ah, hapless men! relentless Silence keeps 
Her watchpost at the portals of the ear; 
No heavenly word or sound approacheth near 
And music’s melting influence in lasting stillness sleeps. 
MacKellar. 
There was a poet whose untimely tomb 
No human hands with pious reverence reared, 
But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds 
Built o’er his mouldering bones a pyramid 
Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness; 
A lovely youth!—no mourning maiden decked 
With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath, 
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep: 
Gentle and brave, and generous, no lorn bard 
Breathed o’er his dark fate one melodious sigh: 
He lived, he died, he sang, in solitude. 
Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes, 
And virgins, as unknown he past, have sighed 
And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes. 
The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn, 
And Silence, too, enamoured of that voice, 
Locks its mute music in her rugged cell. 
Shelley. 
