The Violoncello.

From: Poems (1844)
Author: Christopher Pearse Cranch
Published: Carey and Hart 1844 Philadelphia



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 purged 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.

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