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HIS is the reed the dead musician dropped,

With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden;

The prompt allegro of its music stopped,

Its melodies, unbidden.

But who shall finish the unfinished strain,

Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder,

And bid the slender barrel breathe again—

An organ-pipe of thunder?

His pen! what humbler memories cling about

Its golden curves; what shapes and laughing graces

Slipped from its point when his full heart went out

In smiles and courtly phrases.