Classic Poem

THE VIOLONCELLO.

Larger and more matured, deeper in thought
Slower in speech and of a graver tone,
His ardour softened as if years had wrought
Wise moods upon him, living all alone,
A calm and philosophic eremite;
Yet at some feeling of remembered things,
Or passion smothered, but not purgéd quite.
Hark! what a depth of sorrow in those strings;
See, what a storm growls in his angry breast!
Yet list again—his voice no longer moans,
The storm hath spent its rage and is at rest;
Strong, self-possessed the Violoncello's tones,
But yet too oft like Hamlet seem to me
A high soul struggling with its destiny.