Part 1 — ON A VERY OLD PIANO:

Poor faded, long-neglected thing, Not worth a glance From eyes disdainful as they pass, While you stand there, the sport, alas! Of circumstance. Too true! and yet if you could speak Of years gone by, How many happy memories Might whisper from your yellow keys With muffled sigh. For, as I look, the street and shop Both disappear— I see a room with cheerful light, A ruddy fire, and faces bright, And you are here. Before you sits a little maid, Her dainty feet Scarce touch the floor. She proudly plays A quaint old tune of other days, Most strangely sweet. The vision fades, but once again My eyes can see A pleasant chamber, long and low, With antique chairs placed in a row, And tapestry; With solemn portraits on the wall, And goodly store Of silver, china, bric-a-brac, Carved shining tables, old and black, And polished floor. The windows open on a lawn, The sunset glows, The birds sing on in pure content, The air is perfumed with the scent Of summer rose; While strains of music, softly sad, From fingers white, That rise and fall in cadence clear, In sounds melodious to hear, Float through the night. Quick steps approach: and hushed your strains (The birds still sing)— Imprisoned is the player’s hand, The lovers twain beside you stand, And Love is King! So wags the world—’tis up to-day, To-morrow down. Your reign is over: here you wait, “Cash price, Two Guineas” is your fate In London Town.