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18 He took the bow in his trembling hand, So old was he that he scarce could stand, And still as death grew the auction hall. For fear and silence fell over all. They knew, as they watched in awed surprise. He read their hearts with his piercing eyes, And graven there in the long ago Each story that sprang from beneath his bow. He sang of love, and then years of pain Rolled back—they dreamt they were young again; The wife looked up to her husband's face. And once more saw there the manly grace That won her love when her heart was young (Ah! 'twas the past that the violon sung); And he, looking back, saw that once more The faded cheek was as fresh as of yore; Out from his eyes beamed the old love light, And taking her hand, he pressed it tight. The violon rang through the hall once more— A mother cried for the babe she bore. And stretching her empty arms out wide, She felt no longer her wish denied; The downy head lay upon her breast. The tiny hands her pale cheek caressed. To her lonely heart joy and comfort fell From those wordless lips that can plead so well.