Sing sweet, sing sweet, my violin, sing;
Sing all thy best,—sing sweet, sing sweet;
Gay welcomes fling more swift to bring
The cadence of her loitering feet.
Ring strong along thy bounding wires
A song shall throng with youth's desires.
Let the yearning joy-notes linger
'Neath the coy, caressing finger,
Till the swift bow, flitting over,
Dainty as a doubtful lover,
Slyly, shyly, kisses dreaming,
Falters o'er the trembling strings,
And the love-tones, slower streaming,
Fade to fitful murmurings.

Another year! Ah, fate is hard!
Another year! My hands are scarred
With rugged toil. The tender skill
With which they wrought my music's will
Fails as the days go by; and yet
No term to misery is set.
Thou gentle conjurer of sound,
The one fast friend my life has found,
Vain all thy art; though I can wing
The love-larks from each leaping string,
And heavenward send them carolling;
Bend at my will the soul in prayer,
Bid man or maid my sorrow share;
Can stir the ferns upon the rock,
And anguish all the air with pain;
Or, velvet-voiced, delight to mock
The fairy footfalls of the rain.
It helps me not, though I have force
To thrill the forest with remorse,
Or torture sound till every air
Dark murder hisses, and despair;
And, 'mid the harmonies that flow,
Strange discords riot 'neath the bow,
Like 'wildered fiends astray in heaven,—
Alas, alas, why was it given,
This useless power? My wasted art
Serves but to wring a peasant's heart.
ELSA.
My Johan, have you waited long?
I heard your viol's happy song;
I heard it call, 'Come quick, come fast!'
As o'er the stepping-stones I passed.
I heard it calling, 'Sweet, come fleet!'
As up I came among the wheat.
The birds o'erhead called, 'Soon,—come soon!
I think they know its pretty tune.
What, sad again, and ever sad?
Play, Johan, play! 'T is eventide;
The bells ring out the story glad
How came her joy to Mary's side.
JOHAN.
I cannot. Better had I stayed
In yonder convent's tranquil shade,
At hopeless peace. They meant it well
Who bade me be a priest. The cell,
The fast, dead prayers, a palsied life,
I fought or bent to, till the strife
O'ermastered patience. None too late
I fled beyond their cursèd gate
And free was I as birds are free
To fly, and yet at liberty,
Like them, to quench no single note
That trembles in the eager throat.
What slavery sweet to feel within
The song which not to sing is sin!
If He at whose divine decree
These hands interpret Him can be
So careless of the gift He gave,
What has He left me but the grave?
I plough, I dig; far through the years
I see myself the slave of tears,—
I, that have dreamed of love and fame,
A village boor, without a name.
Last week the young duke opened wide,
To please the poor, his garden's pride.
There, wandering, I saw withal
The nectarines rotting on the wall,
The tumbling grapes caught up with thread,
The dead-ripe figs hung overhead,
The fattening peaches swung in nets.
What woman's starving baby gets
One half the care that saves these pets?
Sharp, sharp the lesson. Break, sad heart,
Or learn to know the poor man's art,—
The art to bear with patience meek
The blow upon the other cheek.
How shall I bear it? I could steal,
Cheat, for this chance. You only feel,
And you alone, how hard the toil
That bends me o'er the silent soil,
And you alone what wild desires
Await a larger life; what fires
Of wordless anguish burn unguessed,
To think,—be sure,—that unexpressed,—
A serf, a boor,— my soul has here
A gift the waiting world holds dear.
Old violin, comrade of the hours
That labor spares, what music-flowers,
What whispers wild, what visions bright,
Thy friendship brings the tired night!
And yet, like one who, sick with sin,
Would murder love he cannot win,
Twice on the bridge, at night, I stood,
To cast thee in the wrecking flood.
But when a last farewell I sung
Too stern a pang my bosom wrung;
I could not drown the dreams that crave
Expression's life. Best were the grave.
ELSA.
Yet that were sin! Could I but give
My life to help your art to live!
The Alp-horn calls; I cannot stay.
One kiss. Ah, Johan, wait and pray.
[She sees a purse in the road.
A purse!
JOHAN.
I pray it be not thin.
ELSA.
Nay, touch it not. It lies within
The shadow of the cross. 'T is sin.
Who taketh but a flower or stone
Where that holy shade is thrown
Is cursed to death. His dearest prayer,
Fluttering like a prisoned bird,
Never wins the happy air,
Beats against the painted saints,
At the altar hopeless faints,
Never, never to be heard.
JOHAN.
The ban is off,—the sun is on.
St. George! 't is full; my luck has won.
Good thirty ducats, gold beside!
Ho for my love, my art, my bride!
ELSA.
What, take at will another's gold,
For love, for greed? Stay, Johan,—hold!
The duke has guests! You cannot soil
Your soul with this.
JOHAN.
And did they toil
To win this money? Out of earth
Some swarthy bondsman wrought its birth.
His sweat, his pain, to be at last
A wanton's wage, a gambler's cast!
Mine is it now to better end.
ELSA.

You cannot keep it. Johan, friend,
A curse is on it. Curses stay.
For gain did one Lord Christ betray:
When Satan gives another's gold,
So much of the Christ is sold.
Blessings come and heavenward go,
Wing-clipped curses bide below.
Thirty ducats, broad and bright,—
Hide them, Johan, out of sight.
Silver white, it fetcheth blight!
Gold, gold, is wicked, bold!
Hear now the story mother told:
Since ever I was a little maid
Ghost-gray silver makes me afraid.

Zillah's son, great Tubal Cain,
Deep he diggèd in the earth,
Where strong iron hath its birth,
Till the hurt earth sobbed with pain.
Little recked he, Tubal Cain.
The sword and the ploughshare
Out of iron he forged with care;
Brass and copper red he found
In their coffins underground.
Then Lord Satan hired he
To dig to all eternity.
Tore he from the broken mould
Moon-white silver, sun-red gold.
On the blessèd Sabbath morn,
Tubal Cain, with laugh and scorn,
Tortured from the silver white
Thirty pieces, broad and bright.
Quick were they and sore to keep;
None who had them gathered sleep.
Little Joseph's brethren said
They would dye his garments red;
Thirty coins of Tubal Cain
Gat they for their brother's pain.
At the holy city's gate
Joseph and Mary long did wait;
Neither corn nor gold had they
The cruel Roman tax to pay.
Little babe Jesu spake aloud,—
Marvelled greatly all the crowd,—
Spake the child in Mary's ear,
'Dig in the sand, and have no fear.'
Deep they delved, and brought to light
Thirty pieces, broad and bright.
Foul-faced Judas sold his Lord
For to have this devil-hoard;
Black-faced Judas had for gain
The thirty coins of Tubal Cain.
On the floor the coins he spent,
Brake his heart, and out he went.
All the way adown the hill
Rolled the ducats with him still;
Underneath his gallows tree
Danced the ducats for to see.
Now they pay for murder done,
Now by them the thief is won.
Mary Mother, and every saint
Keep me from the silver taint!
My heart from wrong, my body from pain,
My soul from sin like Tubal Cain!
JOHAN.
The purse is mine! No old monk's tale
Shall stay my hand. If this should fail—
All men own death. How shall it be?
ELSA.
Give me the purse! The purse or me?
Am I so little worth?
JOHAN.
Take care;
I hear a horse.
Enter HORSEMAN.
HORSEMAN.
Ho, fellow, there!
Hast seen a purse? Just here it lay.
ELSA.
My Johan found it.
HORSEMAN
(takes it).
Thanks. Good-day.
[Rides away as a gentleman comes behind them, hidden by the hedge.
JOHAN.
Now is life over.
ELSA.
Never less.
Your soul is saved. Now, Johan, guess
A secret. No? Well, at the fair
Last week I sold, I pledged, my hair.
To-morrow I shall fetch the gold
To win your way. Ah, love is bold.
My father? Think you I shall care?
A little hurt; less ill to bear
Than that worse hurt you bade me share.
JOHAN.
Forgive, forget! Ah, not again
Your trust shall fail.
ELSA.
Just one more kiss;
And ere your sinless face I miss,
Take up the viol. Say not nay.
The twilight song. Play, Johan, play
The song that in the stillness brings
My troubled soul from earthly things,
When the blown horns the cattle call
Back to the shelter of the stall.
JOHAN.
Come home, come home.
Not through the sallow wheat,
Come home, come home,
Though to grass-tangled feet
The dewy ways be sweet.
Come home, come home.
Meek eyes and skins of silk,
Come home, come home.
Fetch the clover-scented milk,
Come home, come home.
With their pails the maidens wait,
Ever singing at the gate,
Come home, come home.
Come ye home to Mary's wings,
Joy to earth the angel rings,
Come home, come home.
Bring your load of care and sin,
Lo, she waits to let you in,
Come home, come home.

Stay, stay awhile. Though dear my art,
More dear your love. The tears that start
I know are joy. Lo, Seraph wings
Flutter o'er the praying strings.
Hark and hear your gladdened soul
All the raptured viol thrill;
Viewless hands my touch control,
Other force than earthly will.
Purer than the chant of saints
Rings the anthem of your heart;
Though upon your lip it faints,
Though the tears your eyelids part,
Angel voices, pure and strong,
Catch the sweetness of the song.
Hark! the silver crash of cymbals;
Hear the joyous clash of timbrels,
Pouring through the shadows dim;
All the air is music-riven,
And the organ's stately hymn
Thunders to the vault of heaven.
Murmurs, whispers, sad, mysterious,
Language of another sphere,
Faint and solemn, tender, serious,
Wander to my listening ear.
Enter GENTLEMAN.
GENTLEMAN.
A poet-lover! Did you find my purse?
JOHAN.
Ay; and had kept it, too,—or worse,—
Except for her.
GENTLEMAN.
Would Eve had stayed
As honest as your blushing maid!
I always thought the story queer,
Would like that poor snake's tale to hear.
Sometimes I fancy Madam Eve
Tempted the Tempter to deceive.
I heard you tell a pretty tale
About some yellow hair for sale.
Wilt sell it now? Say, gold for gold!
Let's see the goods.
[Pulls out the comb.
'T is worth, when sold,
A hundred ducats.
JOHAN.
No, my lord,
'T is not for sale. No miser's hoard
Could buy it.
GENTLEMAN.
Say two hundred, then;
A kiss to boot. I know of men
Would ask for six.
ELSA.
'T is yours,—'t was mine!
GENTLEMAN.
The gold is thine. Too proudly shine
Those locks above a heart of gold
For me to part them. When you 're old,
And you have babes and he has fame,
Teach in their prayers the wild duke's name.
And you who thought a purse to keep,
Within that battered violin sleep—
Ah, but I heard—all wealth and power
Man craves on earth. In some full hour,
When heaven is nearest, make for me
One golden fugue, to live and be
Remembered when the morrow's light
Is gone for us. Good-night, Good-night.