The Violinist.

But that one air for all that throng! And yet How wondrously the magic strain went through Those thousand hearts! I saw young eyes, that knew Only the fairest sights, grow dim and wet, While eyes long fed on visions of regret Beheld life's rose, upspringing from its rue; For some, the night-wind in thy music blew, For some, the spring's celestial clarinet! And each heart knew its own : the poet heard. Ravished, the song his lips could never free; The girl, her lover's swift, impassioned word; The mother thought, "O little, buried face!" And one, through veil of doubt and agony, Saw Christ, alone in the dim garden-place!