The Musician.

He sweeps the strings : the children dance ;1
In cadence true leap little feet ;2
And brighter flashes childhood’s glance,3
And louder echoes laughter sweet.4
The maiden’s smile, so coyly shrined,5
’Neath rosy lip and drooping lid,6
Wakes, half revealing what her mind7
Deemed idle fancy, safely hid.8
He sweeps the strings, and hopeful youth9
Looks fearless out on coming years :10
There lie the golden days of truth,11
Undimmed by cloud of leaden fears.12
The dimples, half effaced, renew13
The careful mother’s wasted cheek :14
As autumn leaves, made bright with dew,15
A borrowed beauty sometimes seek.16
He sweeps the strings ; and saddened heart,17
Dwells in the strain that brings her peace18
Dreams of the blest who never part,19
And bids awhile her sorrows cease,20
The priest lays laws and Rubric down,21
And sheathes his text-besprinkled sword22
Already sees the harp and crown,23
And hopeful waits the coming Lord.24
He sweeps the strings ; and at the sound,25
The old man the fireside stirs ;26
Lifts palsied head to look around,27
And, ’mazed, the dear old music hears.28
His trembling feet in measure beat ;29
His thoughts are far behind him cast ;30
And young tears rise in aged eyes,31
And once more lives the golden past,32