THE OLD VIOLON
“Going, going!” the voice was loud,
And, rising, silenced the chattering crowd.
“Going! going! shall it be gone?”
The auctioneer held up an old violon.
“The mute though tarnished is silver still
The aged strings have not lost their skill.”
They laughed in scorn as he praised the case,
The ebon nuts and the polished face—
Jokingly betted together that none
Could draw a tune from the old violon,
When lo! from out of their midst appeared
A man of countenance strange and weird.
With gentle touch laid his thin hand on
The polished face of the old violon.
“Thou scorned, thou worthless!” the stranger said,
“Wake, heart of music, art thou too dead?”
As though some spirit long slept awoke,
A faint, low sigh from his fingers broke.
He took the bow in his trembling hand,
So old was he that he scarce could stand.
And still as death grew the auction hall,
For fear and silence fell over all.
They knew, as they watched in awed surprise.
He read their hearts with his piercing eyes.
And graven there in the long ago
Each story that sprang from beneath his bow.
He sang of love, and then years of pain
Rolled back—they dreamt they were young again;
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