Volume 150 — "FOR THIS RELIEF—"
Reading edition
(Suggested by the poster commending a recent Revue as "the last word in syncopation.")
The days of our mourning are ended, The lean years of famine are fled, When, sick for a spoonful of aught that was tuneful, We've sorrowed as over the dead For Music, forlorn and unfriended, Gone down into glimmerless gloom, While rude "rag-time" revels were dancing a devils' Tattoo on her tomb. A new dawn of promise doth redden The rim of our Stygian night; Our bondage is breaking—O blessed awaking To melody merry and bright! My heart, long o'erloaded and leaden, Now bounds to the blue like a bird; The shadow has shifted; with paean uplifted I hail that "last word"!