To Ole Bull.
{"newspaper_name": "The New York herald.", "edition": "01", "page": "pNone", "byline": ""}
{"character_count": 672, "word_count": 115, "ccnet_language_score": [0.8305000066757202], "ccnet_perplexity": [1876.0], "fasttext_language": ["en"]}
IT'S thine, great master of the bow,
with magic skin thine art to show
NO heart but owns thy sweetest tones
Descended from the spheres,
Above this vale of tears;


Such then thy mien


Upon the scene
So calm, serene, thy placid brow,
A demi-angel seemest thou
Again, amid the Carnival,
The market place-the nobles' hall =
The dancers float to joyous note,
While folly gibes and jeers
Pale melancholy's fears


Thou seem'st ween,


Upon the scene,
His sable majesty, Old Nick,
With Paganini's fiddlestick
But when, dear Bull, again,
That sweet and plaintive strain,


"Thc Mothers Prayer"


Floats on the air,
Thou seem'st to me no other than
A kind and gentle hearted man.