Classic Poem

Who knocks? Come in! Thy message say.
A beggar? Sixpence — go thy way!
A fiddler too? A shilling take
And go; nor dare my nerves to shake
Thy little handmaid says thou'rt blind,
Each eye, a sixpence more. That's kind.
Two shillings not enough? Ingrate!
Well, let the little maiden prate
" Please, sir, his poor old viol's strung;
For thanks he has no other tongue. "
A tear? " Its strings he fain would sweep,
Few thank when they a harvest reap. "
Well, play, old man. — That timid air
Steals through me like an infant-prayer.
Now swells the bow to fuller strains
Exhaling riper joys and pains
Of youth and manhood, — old man, stay
Thy fingers! picture not decay,
But Love, the Dance, the Festal Song,
The Squadron's Charge, the Altar's Throng.
Here, take my purse — my blessing too,
Thou'st shown me something yet to do.

And when thou'rt gone, I'll hie me forth,
Convinced there still are joys on earth,
Though not the passions, pride and power,
Which wither in life's sunset-hour;
But Nature's every charm and grace —
For ages wrinkle not her face —
A steadfast Love, to Friendship kin,
The victory of soul o'er sin;
And charities, like cargoes sent
To distant climes, which tenfold rent
Bring back to hearts whose happy glow
Is fed by what themselves bestow
And all these fragrant flowers hath twined
About my heart a fiddler blind!

The poet hath no keener sight
Than this old man with vision blight,
Who, piercing with the spirit's eye
The veil of his infirmity,
Hath with his viol's quickening spell
My pinions warmed to break their shell;
If I accomplish half the task
He wrought on me — 't is all I ask.

DIALOGUE

POEI .

Round my heart thy viol flings
Rapture, with four magic strings
If thy bow, with but the spell
Of twelve semitones, can tell,
Like the rod that gold divines,
All the ear's unfathomed mines,
Spells how many wields the pen,
To delight the hearts of men?

FIDDIER .

Countless as the shore's gray sands
Are the spells the pen commands;
Earth, and they who on it dwell,
Space and Ocean, Heaven and Hell.
Be thy soul with these chords strung
Fervently, and pen and tongue,
Thrilling deeper, hearts shall raise
Higher than my lowly lays.

POEI .

By the measure thou hast taught
I will sell what life hath bought,
I will give thy song a shape,
Ere its fleeting tones escape.

FIDDLER .

Mock thou not my humble art!
With my bow, God touched thy heart,
And to Him ascend its strains,
While thy song on earth remains.