To A Violinist

A little brown fiddle Wrought iung years ago. Nay n ad mi thi riddie- Wbat makes t'au tune flow From four narrow strings Wheu your viülin siugs? For us the wood's soundles3 And seuselcss and cold, For you there's a bouiullesa Romance softly told Ey the Low to the strings When your vlolin sings. It has prisoned and oapturtd The mstling leaves' whim. It echoes th' enraptured Wild nightingale's hyma. Hark to forest taught siringa . Vv'hen your violin sings. Ür, sta3', did Apollo. A-tuniug his lyr, Give you hint how to folios His passicu Dorn íire? Divine grow the strings When your violin sings. And scorned by the muses ís Marsyas again, The -vhile your hand chooses Its tender reírain. Come, quick, touch the strings, For your violin sings!