"That same first fiddler who leads the orchestra to-night
        Here fiddled four decades of years ago;
He bears the same babe-like smile of self-centred delight,
Same trinket on watch-chain, same ring on the hand with the bow.

"But his face, if regarded, is woefully wanner, and drier,
        And his once dark beard has grown straggling and gray;
Yet a blissful existence he seems to have led with his lyre,
In a trance of his own, where no wearing or tearing had sway.

"Mid these wax figures, who nothing can do, it may seem
        That to do but a little thing counts a great deal;
To be watched by kings, councillors, queens, may be flattering to him
-
With their glass eyes longing they too could wake notes that appeal."

* * *

Ah, but he played staunchly—that fiddler—whoever he was,
        With the innocent heart and the soul-touching string:
May he find the Fair Haven! For did he not smile with good cause?
Yes; gamuts that graced forty years'-flight were not a small thing!