Up in the attic's dusty gloom,
Where spiders weave their slender nets,
Where faded chairs and sofas loom,—
A hidden realm of fond regrets—
Entranced amid the memories
That Gustaf's palmy days afford
With cracked and yellow ivory keys
There stands an ancient clavichord.
Though slack the strings and dull with rust,
One yet may see where partly hid
Under the drifted film of dust
A nymph is dancing on the lid
In stiff brocade with hair a-curl
And scarlet shoes, the while her swain
Tinkles his lute inlaid with pearl,
And white lambs feed around the twain.
It stands there deep in reverie
Of dance and song in times long gone,
Of many a lilting melody
That rippled through the silk salon,
Of witty folk in full array
Who clinked their glasses, talked and bowed,
Of minuets demurely gay,
And laughter free but never loud.
Ah, that was in another age
Of music such that great men came:
Full many a titled personage
And many an artist known to fame.
High heels rang on the polished floor
At masquerade and festive rout,
Mozart was played then, Bach and Spohr,
And poets read their verse, no doubt.
But other memories too, abound
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