VERSES FOR A VIOLINIST.
"The violin has now fairly taken its place as an instrument for girls."—Daily News.
In old days of Art the painter much applause would surely win,
When he showed us Saint Cecilia playing on the violin.
I've no skill of brush and palette like those unforgotten men;
My Cecilia must content herself with an unworthy pen.
Fairy fingers flash before me as the bow sweeps o'er each string;
Like the organ's vox humana, Hark! the instrument can sing.
That sonata of TARTINI's in my ears will linger long;
It might be some prima donna scaling all the heights of song.
Every string a different language speaks beneath her skilful sway.
Does the shade of PAGANINI hover over her to-day?
All can feel the passion throbbing through the music fraught with pain:
Then, with feminine mutation, comes a soft and tender strain.
Gracious curve of neck, and fiddle tucked 'neath that entrancing chin—
Fain with you would I change places, O thrice happy violin!