Ballade of Old Instruments
So quaintly sadly mute they hang,
We ask in vain what fingers played,
What hearts were stirred, what voices sang,
What songs in life’s brief masquerade,—
What old-world catch or serenade,
What ill-worn mirth, what mock despairs
Found voice when maid or ruffling blade
Sang long-forgot familiar airs.
We only know that once they rang
In oaken room and forest glade,
Where yule logs glowed or branches swang;
When earth and heaven itself were made
For roistering off a Spanish raid,
To drown in such life’s shallower cares,
Or trip in ruffs and old brocade,
To long-forgot familiar airs.
Dead all—a pun for every pang
(So Shakespeare then the race portrayed
That fought and revelled, danced and sprang
Half-way to meet death undismayed);
About them gather mist and shade,
Yet Time ironically spares
These strings on which their fingers strayed
To long-forgot familiar airs.
Envoy.
Ah! child, so soon the colours fade
From Watteau fêtes and Teniers fairs,
You yet may seek in notes decayed
Our long-forgot familiar airs.
Mortimer Wheeler.