Higginson and Bigelow, comps. American Sonnets. 1891.
The ViolinWarren Holden (18171903)
T
Whose throbbing chords are tuned to every tone
Of passion’s scale to human bosom known.
Dost thou discourse of love? The lover’s frame
Responsive trembles and reveals the flame.
Is grief thy theme? What sympathy is shown
On every face! Mayhap there bursts a moan.
Thy gentle chiding wakens conscious blame.
Spontaneous pleasure leads the nimble dance
Where’er thy wizard wand a challenge flings,
’Neath stately roof or green-wood tree perchance.
And when repentance wavers o’er the strings
Their pleading prayers the contrite heart entrance,
And waft it heavenward as on angel wings.