'Going, going!' the voice was loud,
And, rising, silenced the chattering crowd.
'Going! going! shall it be gone?'
The auctioneer held up an old violon.
'The mute though tarnished is silver still
The agèd strings have not lost their skill.'
They laughed in scorn as he praised the case,
The ebon nuts and the polished face—
Jokingly betted together that none
Could draw a tune from the old violon,
When lo! from out of their midst appeared
A man of countenance strange and weird,
With gentle touch laid his thin hand on
The polished face of the old violon.
'Thou scorned, thou worthless!' the stranger said,
'Wake, heart of music, art thou too dead?'
As though some spirit long slept awoke,
A faint, low sigh from his fingers broke.
He took the bow in his trembling hand,
So old was he that he scarce could stand,
And still as death grew the auction hall,
For fear and silence fell over all.
They knew, as they watched in awed surprise,
He read their hearts with his piercing eyes,
And graven there in the long ago
Each story that sprang from beneath his bow.
He sang of love, and then years of pain
Rolled back—they dreamt they were young again;

The wife looked up to her husband's face,
And once more saw there the manly grace
That won her love when her heart was young
(Ah! 'twas the past that the violon sung);
And he looked back and saw once more
The faded cheek was as fresh as of yore;
Out from his eyes beamed the old love-light,
And taking her hand, he pressed it tight.
The violon's song all sweet did soar—
A mother cried for the babe she bore,
And stretching her empty arms out wide,
She felt no longer her wish denied;
The downy head lay upon her breast,
The tiny hands her pale cheek caressed,
To her lonely heart joy and comfort fell
From those wordless lips that can plead so well.
The violon's song rang loud and clear
They saw a garden all fair appear,
Perfumed with roses and blossoms white,
Lifting their heads to the sun's hot light.
A statue stood there amidst them all—
A cry of wonder went down the hall—
For at its base, kneeling all alone,
Pressing warm lips to the feet of stone,
Raising soft hands to the face above,
A maiden was breathing her soul in love.
Gold-hearted lilies and roses sweet
She culled and laid at the statue's feet,
But touching the stone each flower would die.
The maid arose with a mournful cry,
And glanced in fear round the garden fair
It was weeds and thorns that flourished there.
'O love,' she cried, 'I am sore afraid—
The night has come and my blossoms fade.'
Raising her arms to the stony face,
The statue fell at her slight embrace;
Down at her feet her idol lay—
An empty shell was this broken clay.
Amidst the fragments she sought to find
Her god of beauty, her love so kind,
Her faith, her hopes, that were scattered all;
Her cry was echoed within the hall;
And one gentle face so pale it grew,
That those who saw it her story knew.

Then of the present the violon sang.
No words it gave them yet as it rang;
Each heart gave words to the wondrous lay
'The living present is ours to-day.'
And now they shudder and hold their breath;
The violon's song is the song of death—
Death in most cruel and dreadful guise—
The god of war rose before their eyes.
The clash of arms filled the auction hall,
For blood seemed around and over all,
Each woman shrank to her husband's side,
He clenched his hand as he rose and cried,
The cry of battle, the eagle's cry,
That sights his quarry from far on high,
His heart beat quick with the lust for blood;
He fain would seek in that ruddy flood
To quench that fierce, unsatiable thirst
With which man and beast are alike accurst.

And now a moment, so strange and still
They seemed enchained to the violon's will—
So silent all that an echo flew
From the sobbing breath that a strong man drew—
When sudden there broke a fearful cry
That seemed to quiver across the sky,
A cry of some soul, it was to those
Who heard it, a soul in life's last throes,
A cold, passing breath from death's black wings,
A crash of discord o'er broken strings;
And what had been was now no more,
Silence and death seemed to cloud them o'er;
The past, the present, all men may see,
But no man knoweth what is to be.

Again they start with a new surprise,
No minstrel is there to their wildered eyes;
From whence he came or whither he fled,
Or of the living, or of the dead,
Their wondering hearts have never known.
The violon lay on the desk alone.
Fearing to lose, yet afraid to win,
Their voices rise, and above their din—
'Going! going! 'tis gone! 'tis gone;
A rare Stradivarius this old violon.
Behold!' and the auctioneer thought to raise
It high in his hand as he sung its praise—
With a faint, low sob, like a passing bell,
To dust 'neath his touch the violon fell.