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—