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Therein one young 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,
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,
For 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-