Classic Poem

Seize the bow, old swarthy fiddler!
Newly strung with black horse-hair:
Seize the bow, and seize the fiddle:
Play some old familiar air!

Dream, with thy strange wailing music,
Back the golden time again,
When throughout the world thou wandered'st,
Poor as now, but without pain.

Dream thyself in those black forests,
By the tent-fire's dying light,
Where, with thy brown sunburnt sweetheart,
Sinless was thy sleep, by night.

Dream thee in the darken'd wine-room,
'Mong the robbers rough and rude;
Where they clash'd the sounding cymbals
To thy bass so swiftly bow'd.

Dream thyself in that far desert,
Where, in tears, her grave was made:
Where, in the true gipsy fashion,
Died she, far from human aid. . . .