The shade of death had haunted him
Through many a weary day;
With dread disease his youthful frame
Was wasting slow away.
He took his violin and sighed,--
"I am too weak to play."
But, rising in his cushioned chair,
He grasps, with trembling hand,
The neck and bow, and tunes the strings
And thinks of concerts grand;
And hears the crowd applauding loud
As when he led the band.
Inspired with supernatural power
He plays a melody,
Forgetting all the terrors of
His mortal malady;
And, as of yore, his soul once more
Is with the gay and free.
Something responsive in the soul
Wakes with melodious sound
A lively melody that makes
The languid pulse rebound,
While recollection takes the mind
Through many a happy round.
Now fast, now slow, he draws the bow
To suit his changing will;
A march, a waltz, a polka, and
An intricate quadrille,
Each in its turn is rendered with
An artist's ready skill.
With failing strength he strikes at length
His favorite--"Home, Sweet Home;"
His dreamy spirit ceases with
The pleasing past to roam,
And, through the future, seems to rise
Up, up to Heaven's high dome.
And mingling with his violin
He hears the joyful strains
That vibrate o'er angelic hosts,
Where song supernal reigns!
Oh! glimpse of glory! lifting him
Above all mortal pains.
The last sweet note of that sweet tune
Within the room has died--
And now he's playing on the harp
Upon the other side
Of death's dark river, safe and free,
Among the glorified.