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Who chanted lays of love and glee,
But when the tempest laid it low,
Frances Sargent Osgood.
THE VIOLIN'S COMPLAINT
Honest Stradivari made me:
Oh the deep, ecstatic burning!
Heartless men, so long to hide me
William Roscoe Thayer.
ON ÆOLUS'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
But hark! that strain was of a graver tone, On the deep strings his hand some hermit
throws; Or he, the sacred Bard," who sat alone
In the drear waste, and wept his people's
Such was the song which Zion's children
sung, When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint;
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 con
spire To swell the lofty hymn, from praise to
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.
THE OLD VIOLIN
Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in
dust, Like some great thought on a forgotten
The soul of music cannot fade or rust,
age; Its strings and bow are only trifling things A master-touch! — its sweet soul wakes and sings.
Maurice Francis Egan.
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; 111 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;