Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life Connecticut River reeds blown by the "Peasant Bard" |
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TO THE VIOLIN. |
 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
TO THE VIOLIN.
INSCRIBED TO R. D. HAWLEY, HARTFORD, OWNER OF “KING JOSEPH,” CALLED THE FINEST OLD VIOLIN IN THE WORLD.
Cherish “King Joseph!” Who may tell
What sweet, enchanting numbers dwell
Within that time-stained, trembling shell?
I fain would hear
A master hand, with magic spell,
Bid them appear.
What sweet, enchanting numbers dwell
Within that time-stained, trembling shell?
I fain would hear
A master hand, with magic spell,
Bid them appear.
Sweet solace of a lonely hour,
All gratefully I own thy dower
To recreate,—when cares devour
Life's peace, life's rest.
My spirit thy reviving power
Seeks, and is blest.
All gratefully I own thy dower
To recreate,—when cares devour
Life's peace, life's rest.
My spirit thy reviving power
Seeks, and is blest.
What genius first invented thee?
The pages of chronology
We scan in vain his name to see;
He's lost to fame,
But sweet Euterpe's Gem shall be
Thy titled name.
The pages of chronology
We scan in vain his name to see;
He's lost to fame,
But sweet Euterpe's Gem shall be
Thy titled name.
103
More like thy infant state was rude;
Like some wild floweret of the wood,
Untrained, yet giving likelihood
Of richness vast,
That cultivation, skilled and good,
Brings forth at last.
Like some wild floweret of the wood,
Untrained, yet giving likelihood
Of richness vast,
That cultivation, skilled and good,
Brings forth at last.
Once did a good old grandame say
Thou wert a wicked thing and gay;
But since, “beyond the bourne,” away
With Paganini,
She's heard that master spirit play,—
What say you, granny?
Thou wert a wicked thing and gay;
But since, “beyond the bourne,” away
With Paganini,
She's heard that master spirit play,—
What say you, granny?
I'm thinking had King David known
Thee, and the skill in handling shown
That he displayed in slinging stone,
It's safe in saying
That Saul the spear had never thrown
To stop his playing.
Thee, and the skill in handling shown
That he displayed in slinging stone,
It's safe in saying
That Saul the spear had never thrown
To stop his playing.
And furthermore, compared with you,
That harp, which makes so much ado,
Was a dull bird, according to
My observation;
Or else we moderns don't renew
Its fabrication.
That harp, which makes so much ado,
Was a dull bird, according to
My observation;
Or else we moderns don't renew
Its fabrication.
When prospects dismally are blue;
When straight-sent projects slant askew;
When wants are great and ways are few,
'Tis then, old shell,
Thou canst exorcise and eschew
The evil spell.
When straight-sent projects slant askew;
When wants are great and ways are few,
'Tis then, old shell,
Thou canst exorcise and eschew
The evil spell.
When thoughts, a sad and gloomy train,
Parade upon the mental plain,
And reason's strongest force is vain
To clear the field,
Thy cheerful, animating strain
Will make them yield.
Parade upon the mental plain,
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To clear the field,
Thy cheerful, animating strain
Will make them yield.
Princes and poets, priests and kings,
Have drawn the music of thy strings;
Statesmen have given airy wings
To cares of state,
To dwell upon the beauteous things
Thou canst create.
Have drawn the music of thy strings;
Statesmen have given airy wings
To cares of state,
To dwell upon the beauteous things
Thou canst create.
Some homeless wanderer, maybe,
Far from his own nativity,
Who's lived his household gods to see
Spread to the blast,
Halts feebly on, but unto thee
Clings to the last.
Far from his own nativity,
Who's lived his household gods to see
Spread to the blast,
Halts feebly on, but unto thee
Clings to the last.
Such are thy charms, I do not wonder
That he who forged our July thunder,
Which woke the land to rend asunder
Our British chains,
Should daily o'er thee love to ponder
And wake thy strains.
That he who forged our July thunder,
Which woke the land to rend asunder
Our British chains,
Should daily o'er thee love to ponder
And wake thy strains.
When soft on Bernard sleeps the dew,
And over Powsic's bosky blue
The yellow moon climbs into view,
Calm and serene,
How dear communion is with you!
How sweet the scene!
And over Powsic's bosky blue
The yellow moon climbs into view,
Calm and serene,
How dear communion is with you!
How sweet the scene!
105
Gone then the labors of the day;
Flown Care's ill-omened birds of prey;
Thy gliding sweetness brings a ray
Of hope so clear,
That clouds and darkness lift away
And disappear!
Flown Care's ill-omened birds of prey;
Thy gliding sweetness brings a ray
Of hope so clear,
That clouds and darkness lift away
And disappear!
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |