Who, 'neath the spell, returned to youth again.
He raps the fiddle-back as t'were a drum,
The raw recruits of Cupid's army come,
And heeding not the praise his playing wins,
The ebullition of his soul begins.
The zeal of Crocket, turned to scornful sound,
Pursues the measure like a baying hound;
The sprightly phrases fall like gusts of rain,
The dancers sway like wind-swept fields of grain;
And, midst the storm, to maddening fury stirred,