150
THE OLD VIOLON
Again they start with a new surprise,
No minstrel is there to their wildered eyes;
From whence he came or whither he fled,
Or of the living, or of the dead.
Their wondering hearts have never known.
The violon lay on the desk alone.
Fearing to lose, yet afraid to win,
Their voices rise, and above their din—
“Going! going! 'tis gone! 'tis gone;
A rare Stradivarius this old violon.
Behold!” and the auctioneer thought to raise
It high in his hand as he sung its praise—
With a faint, low sob, like a passing bell,
To dust 'neath his touch the violon fell.
