Classic Poem

The mighty master! in our hearts he lives,
Lives in eternal beauty; nothing mars
The glory of his name; the morning star
Wears not a purer splendor, when it gleams
On the dusk forehead of the regal Day.
He lives, and cannot die — for thought survives
The body's dissolution, and his thought
Was of divinest essence, given to him
To be transmitted through the world in tones,
That men might catch some fragments of the hymn,
Sung by angelic choirs in blissful realms.

He was inspired. That spirit, called of old
" The god, " possessed him, and his fervent soul
Gave utterance to the Oracles of Sound.
He never knew the calm, dull life of men
Cast in the common mould; he gave away
His soul to harmony and dwelt apart,
In the communion, which his secret thoughts
Held with attendant sprites, who sung to him
Songs that no other ear had ever heard.

Oh, for the skill that cunning limner had
Who painted Belisarius, blind and old,
Led helpless by the hand, and asking alms!
It is enough to fill the eyes with tears
To see how might and strength can be subdued
To a most fragile weakness — how an oak
May by a storm be beaten to the earth,
And made as powerless as a willow wand.
But far more piteous is it to behold
Genius laid prostrate by Misfortune's blast,
Stripped of its leaves and blossoms, and uptorn
By the harsh world, like some unvalued weed
Which cumbers, not embellishes the ground.
Beethoven lived neglected; died in want
And friendless — no! not friendless; thou wast there,
Louise! thou kind and gentle-hearted girl!
The mighty master's scholar — who, when all
Deserted and abandoned, left him not,
But, with the tendrils of an earnest love,
Clung round the noble column, as it fell.
By music such as his, not verse like mine,
Should thy pure deed be told to after times.

I but record the story of his death,
To give a warning in my humble lines,
And bid the cold and careless, when they waste
In revel or in pomp the precious gold,
Pause and remember that the Artist pines
In lonely want for bread which they can give,
And dies with none to comfort or console —
Cheered, let me hope, by some celestial dream,
Some fit of ecstasy, some daring flight,
Towards that high empire of the deathless mind
Revealed to him in vision, bodied forth
In Painting, Sculpture, Poetry or Sound —
Sound pure, defined, harmonious, spiritual,
Causing the blood to flow, the frame to thrill,
The very senses to dissolve in joy,
The soul, we scarce know why, to be enthralled
In a most sweet captivity, that makes
Freedom a weariness and Silence pain.
We call this concord Music. It comes down
From Heaven by angels wafted and by those,
To whom, as to Beethoven, God vouchsafes
That gift of genius, the creative power —
Endowed with which, though man indeed may be
A little lower than the angels still,
He lifts his fellows nearer unto God.