I suffer vacant days—

He on his shield not meanly left—

He cherished all thy lays.

Witness the magic coffer stocked

[59]

With convoluted runes

Wherein thy very voice was locked

And linked to circling tunes.

Witness thy portrait, smoke-defiled,

That decked his shelter-place.

Life seemed more present, wrote the child,

Beneath thy well-known face.

And when the grudging days restored

Him for a breath to home,

He, with fresh crowds of youth, adored

Thee making mirth in Rome.

Therefore, I, humble, join the hosts,

Loyal and loud, who bow

To thee as Queen of Songs—and ghosts—

For I remember how

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