 | Poems |  |
TO MY FIDDLE.
Come to my arms my ancient shell!
To say the least I love thee well,
For Music loves in thee to dwell—
Her best retreat;
Thy trembling chords, when stricken, tell
Her voice is sweet.
To say the least I love thee well,
For Music loves in thee to dwell—
Her best retreat;
Thy trembling chords, when stricken, tell
Her voice is sweet.
Of beauty thou hast none to boast,
For all thou 'st had is ever lost;
Age aye is purchased at the cost
Of wear and tear;
But still thou 'rt better than the most
Of fiddles are.
For all thou 'st had is ever lost;
Age aye is purchased at the cost
Of wear and tear;
But still thou 'rt better than the most
Of fiddles are.
Tho' Time has marked thee with his tooth,
If faded beauty speaks the truth,
That thou wast handsome in thy youth
Is plain to me;
And what is more, you came, forsooth,
From o'er the sea.
If faded beauty speaks the truth,
That thou wast handsome in thy youth
Is plain to me;
And what is more, you came, forsooth,
From o'er the sea.
My fancy now is taking wings:
Changes are thine, like other things;
Perhaps you 've calmed for crowned kings
Their mighty cares;
Perhaps some beggar o'er thy strings
Has scraped his airs.
Changes are thine, like other things;
Perhaps you 've calmed for crowned kings
Their mighty cares;
Perhaps some beggar o'er thy strings
Has scraped his airs.
Perhaps within the crowded hall
You 've led the mazes of the ball,
And with your numbers held in thrall
The music-bound;
While listening roof and echoing wall
Gave back the sound.
You 've led the mazes of the ball,
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The music-bound;
While listening roof and echoing wall
Gave back the sound.
Or else within the humble shed
The poor man's ears you 've haply fed;
And while the swift-winged moments sped
Unheeded by,
You 've laid him on his cheerless bed
And closed his eye.
The poor man's ears you 've haply fed;
And while the swift-winged moments sped
Unheeded by,
You 've laid him on his cheerless bed
And closed his eye.
But, tell me, hast thou ever found,
In all thy wide-extended round,
The bard, whose very soul was sound—
Deep-toned, yet sweet?
If so, my fancy 'lights to ground,
And bares her feet.
In all thy wide-extended round,
The bard, whose very soul was sound—
Deep-toned, yet sweet?
If so, my fancy 'lights to ground,
And bares her feet.
Not that she grovels here below;
Not that she fears to fly—ah, no!
Her pinions never weary grow;
She rests her flight
To see thy sympathising bow
Flounce with delight!
Not that she fears to fly—ah, no!
Her pinions never weary grow;
She rests her flight
To see thy sympathising bow
Flounce with delight!
But cease your minstrelsy, I pray,—
Your merry notes a moment stay!
The son of song is oft at bay
With vengeful pack
That follow greedily their prey
O'er life's wild track.
Your merry notes a moment stay!
The son of song is oft at bay
With vengeful pack
That follow greedily their prey
O'er life's wild track.
But when most eager to devour,
Thou dost possess the gentler power
To turn aside the gloomy hour,
And let it pass;
Then see aloof the hell-hounds scour
In one dark mass!
Thou dost possess the gentler power
To turn aside the gloomy hour,
And let it pass;
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In one dark mass!
Oft when the toilsome day is done,
And faintly sinks the summer sun,
How smoothly do the moments run,
Like drops of oil,
When to thy soft and mellow tone
I give my toil!
And faintly sinks the summer sun,
How smoothly do the moments run,
Like drops of oil,
When to thy soft and mellow tone
I give my toil!
When blustering Winter, loud and bleak,
O'er passive Nature deals his wreak,
'T is sweet the chimney-nook to seek,
With thee before,
And drown the whistling tempest's shriek
Without the door!
O'er passive Nature deals his wreak,
'T is sweet the chimney-nook to seek,
With thee before,
And drown the whistling tempest's shriek
Without the door!
But, oh! 't is graven on my heart,
That thou and I one day must part;
Death with his ever-sharpened dart
Will cut the tie;
For never yet has human art
Learn'd not to die.
That thou and I one day must part;
Death with his ever-sharpened dart
Will cut the tie;
For never yet has human art
Learn'd not to die.
Who then shall wake thy plaintive strain,
And hear thee tenderly complain
For him who sang to thee? I fain
Would thou might tell.
I 'd charge him o'er and o'er again
To use thee well!
And hear thee tenderly complain
For him who sang to thee? I fain
Would thou might tell.
I 'd charge him o'er and o'er again
To use thee well!
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