Five and thirty black slaves, Half a hundred white, All their duty but to sing For their Queen's delight, Now with throats of thunder, Now with dulcet lips, While she rules them royally With her finger-tips! When she quits her palace All the slaves are dumb — Dumb with dolor till the Queen Back to Court is come: Dumb the throats of thunder, Dumb the dulcet lips, Lacking all the sovereignty Of her finger-tips! Dusky slaves and pallid, Ebon slaves and white, When the Queen was on her throne How you sang to-night! Ah, the throats of thunder! Ah, the dulcet lips! Ah, the gracious tyrannies Of her finger-tips! Silent, silent, silent, All your voices now; Was it then her life alone Did your life endow? Waken, throats of thunder! Waken, dulcet lips! Touched to immortality By her finger-tips. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MEANING OF THE LOOK by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING ON MONSIEUR'S DEPARTURE by ELIZABETH I DEEDS OF VALOR AT SANTIAGO by CLINTON SCOLLARD THE MAID OF NEIDPATH by WALTER SCOTT PRINCETON by LYMAN WHITNEY ALLEN SONNET TO A FRIEND, ON HIS SECOND MARRIAGE by BERNARD BARTON THE SPINNING-WHEEL (YONDERLAND SONG) by LYA BERGER |