THE KEY-BOARD

By William Watson

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 dolour 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.