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Rh When sudden there broke a fearful cry That seemed to quiver across the sky, A cry of some soul, it was to those Who heard it, a soul in life's last throes, A cold, passing breath from death's black wings, A crash of discord o'er broken strings; And what had been was now no more, Silence and death seemed to cloud them o'er; The past, the present, all men may see. But no man knoweth what is to be. Again they start with a new surprise. No minstrel is there to their wildered eyes, From whence he came or whither he fled. Or of the living, or of the dead. Their wondering hearts have never known. The violon lay on the desk alone. Fearing to lose, yet afraid to win. Their voices rise, and above their din— ‘Going! going! 'tis gone! 'tis gone; A rare Stradivarius this old violon. Behold!’ and the auctioneer thought to raise It high in his hand as he sung its praise— With a faint, low sob, like a passing bell, To dust 'neath his hand the violon fell.