POETRY.
THE OLD VIOLIN.
[ANTON. STRAPIErAUIUS CIIMONENBIL FACIEDAT ANN°, 1704.] IT boasts a peerless colour, dried By suns of Southern lands, As fair as when, a thing of pride, It left the master's hands ; For jealous time forgets and fears That velvet sheen to tarnish, That mystery guarded through the years Of Stradivarius varnish.
Music that once across it swept To-day about it clings, The threnodies of souls that wept Their grief above the strings : And hours of passionate appeal So gift it with sensation That such as lift it now may feel A thrill of sad vibration.
And still it wakes the note of strife, Of gladness or distress, Playing on hidden chords of Life That words may not express; Some strange desire, some vague delight, That sets the soul a-wondering, As when men hear throughout the night The restless ocean thundering.
Surely our wondrous modern wit Hath something yet to learn, Though progress leap to welcome it At each triumphant turn, Something, while that frail pinewood toy Lies there upon the table, And dims our brilliance to alloy With yonder dusty label.
ALFRED COCHRANE.
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