Who chanted lays of love and glee,
Till every leaflet thrilled with joy.

But when the tempest laid it low,
The exiled fay flew to and fro;

Till finding here her home once more,
She warbles wildly as before!

Frances Sargent Osgood.

THE VIOLIN'S COMPLAINT

Honest Stradivari made me:
With the gift of love he blest me;
Once, delight, a master played me,
Love awoke when he caressed me!

Oh the deep, ecstatic burning!
Oh the secrets low and tender!
Oh the passion and the yearning
At our love's complete surrender!

Heartless men, so long to hide me
With the costly toys you cherish;
I'm a soul-again confide me
To a lover, ere I perish!

William Roscoe Thayer.

ON EOLUS'S HARP

Ethereal race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.

Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid, With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart!

Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid, Who died of love, these sweet complainings part.

But hark! that strain was of a graver tone, On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws;

Or he, the sacred Bard,1 who sat alone

In the drear waste, and wept his people's

woes.

Such was the song which Zion's children sung,

When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint;

I ' Jeremiah.

And to such sadly solemn notes are strung Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint.

Methinks I hear the full celestial choir, Through heaven's high dome their awful anthem raise;

Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire

To swell the lofty hymn, from praise to praise.

Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind, Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string;

Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd,

For till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.

James Thomson.

THE OLD VIOLIN

Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust,

Like some great thought on a forgotten

page;

The soul of music cannot fade or rust,

The voice within it stronger grows with

age;

Its strings and bow are only trifling things A master-touch! - its sweet soul wakes and sings.

Maurice Francis Egan.

THE CELLO

When late I heard the trembling cello play, In every face I read sad memories

That from dark, secret chambers where they lay

Rose, and looked forth from melancholy eyes.

So every mournful thought found there a

tone

To match despondence; sorrow knew its

mate;

Ill fortune sighed, and mute despair made

moan;

And one deep chord gave answer, "Late,

- too late."

Then ceased the quivering strain, and swift returned

Into its depths the secret of each heart;