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"be'd only bis violin" From painting by W'. Stryowski

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Each face took on its mask, where lately

burned A spirit charmed to sight by music's art;

But unto one who caught that inner flame No face of all can ever seem the same.

Richard Watson Gilder.


He'd nothing but his violin,
I'd nothing but my song,
But we were wed when skies were blue
And summer days were long;
And when we rested by the hedge,
The robins came and told
How they had dared to woo and win,
When early Spring was cold.

We sometimes supped on dewberries
Or slept among the hay,
But oft the farmers' wives at eve
Came out to hear us play;
The rare old songs, the dear old tunes,
We could not starve for long
While my man had his violin,
And I my sweet love-song.

Mary Kyle Dallas.


O take that airy harp from out the gale,
Its troubles call from such a distant bourne,
Now that the wind has wooed it to its tale
Of bygone bliss, that never can return;
Hark! with what dreamy sadness it is swell-

ing! How sweet it falls, unwinding from the

breeze! Disordered music, deep and tear-compelling, Like siren-voices pealing o'er the seas. Nay, take it not, for now my tears are stealing, But when it brake upon my mirthful hour, And spake to joy of sorrow past the healing, I shrank beneath the soft subduing power; Nay, take it not; replace it by my bower The soul can thrill with no diviner feeling.

Charles Tennyson Turner.


A certain Chopin prelude once I heard.
Strive as I may to tell, no mortal word
Can all-express that music. Like a bird

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