THE SINGER'S PRIZE.

Thames Star, Volume VII, Issue 2645, 30 June 1877, Page 3

THE SINGER'S PRIZE.

(FHOlt BMCRWOOD.) The tall house lowers grimly, Deformed by smoke and rain j And the bleared sunshine dimly Blinks on the window-pane. Though sore and numb her fingers, And slowly fades the light, The girl nor rests nor lingers, But sews from morn till night. " Her bright young face is sunken And fails her gentle breath ; Her fair young form is shrunken • To fit the robes of death, ■ And I think of the woodland shadows ■y' That she has never seen ; Of t.he wonder of song in the meadows When all the world is greon. But now the close lips quiver, - "'~ The nimble hands are slow — The voice ehe'drenms of .ever "■'.'' Bing3 in the room below. . •' ' The mad young poet is singing, With only a crust; to eat;' • „ But a fountain of' light is springing Up from the narrow street. And whether he sings in sorrow, Or whether he sings in glee, He hopes that the world to-morrow Will list to his melody. And I think though his heart were burning With words no man e'er said, The world would be turning and turning If to-morrow he were dead. Only, both late and early, \ The girl, as maidens will, Dreams when the voice comes clearly Up to her window-sill. A brave face has she found him. A manner frank and gay, And long ago has crowned him With myrtle wreath or bay. "^ A good sword clanging loudly, A plume of waving hair, A cloak that drapes htm proudly, Such as the players wear. So whether in glee or sadness . He sings, he has won the prize, When he brings-tho light of gladness To a dying maiden's eyes. . J. R.S.