Classic Poem

They talked of their concerts, and Cramers, and Spohrs,
And pitied the fever that kept me in-doors;
And I smiled in my thought, and said, " O ye sweet fancies,
And animal spirits, that still in your dances
Come bringing me visions to comfort my care,
Now fetch me a concert: — imparadise air".

Then a wind, like a storm out of Eden, came pouring
Fierce into my room, and made tremble the flooring;
And filled, with a sudden impetuous trample
Of heaven, its corners; and swelled it to ample
Dimensions to breathe in, and space for all power; —
Which falling as suddenly, lo! the sweet flower
Of an exquisite fairy-voice opened its blessing;
And ever and aye, to its constant addressing,
There came, falling in with it, each in the last,
Flageolets one by one, and flutes blowing more fast,
And hautboys and clarinets, acrid of reed,
And the violin, smoothlier sustaining the speed
As the rich tempest gathered, and buz-ringing moons
Of tambours, and deep basses, and giant bassoons,
And the golden trombone, that darteth its tongue
Like a bee of the gods; nor was wanting the gong,
Like a sudden, fate-bringing, oracular sound,
Or Earth's iron genius burst up from the ground,
A terrible slave, come to wait on his masters
The gods, with exultings that clanged like disasters;
And then spoke the organs, the very gods they,
Like thunders that roll on a wind-blowing day;
And taking the rule of the roar in their hands,
Lo! the Genii, of Music came out of all lands,
And one of them said, " Will my Lord tell his slave,
What concert 'twould please his Firesideship to have?"

Then I said, in a tone of immense will and pleasure,
" Let orchestras rise to some exquisite measure;
And let there be lights and be odours; and let
The lovers of music serenely be set;
And then with their singers in lily-white stoles,
And themselves clad in rose-colour, fetch me the souls
Of all the composers accounted divinest,
And with their own hands let them play me their finest."

Then lo! was performed my immense will and pleasure,
And orchestras rose to an exquisite measure;
And lights were about me, and odours; and set
Were the lovers of music, all wondrously met;
And then with their singers in lily-white stoles,
And themselves clad in rose-colour, in came the souls
Of all the composers accounted divinest,
And with their own hands did they play me their finest.

Oh! truly was Italy heard then and Germany,
Melody's heart, and the rich brain of harmony:
Fresh Paisiello, whose airs are as new,
Though we know them by heart, as May-blossoms and dew;
And Nature's twin son, Pergolese; and Bach,
Old father of fugues, with his endless fine talk;
And Gluck, n who saw gods; and the learned sweet feeling,
Of Haydn; and Winter, whose sorrows are healing;

And airy Corelli, whose bowing seems made
For a hand with a jewel: and Handel arrayed
In Olympian thunders, vast lord of the spheres,
Yet pious himself, with his blindness in tears,
A lover withal, and a conqueror, whose marches
Bring demi-gods under victorious arches;
Then Arne n sweet and tricksome; and masterly Purcell,
Half priest and half prince; and Mozart universal,
But chiefly with exquisite gallantries found,
With a grove, in the distance, of holier sound;
Nor forgot was thy dulcitude, loving Sacchini;
Nor love, young and dying, in shape of Bellini;
Nor Weber, nor Himmel, nor mirth's sweetest name,
Cimarosa; much less the great organ-voiced fame
Of Marcello, that hushed the Venetian sea;
And strange was the shout, when it wept, hearing thee,
Thou soul full of grace as of grief, my heart-cloven,
My poor, my most rich, my all-feeling Beethoven.

O'er all, like a passion great Pasta n was heard,
As high as her heart, that truth-uttering bird;
And Banti was there; and Grassini, that goddess!
Dark, deep-toned, large, lovely, with glorious boddice;
And Jordan, whose laugh was a love; and Cuzzoni;
And Gay's Polly Fenton, and Milton's Baroni;
And Mara; and Malibran, stung to the tips
Of her fingers with pleasure; and rich Fodor's lips;
And was it a voice? or what was it? say —
That like a fallen angel beginning to pray,
Was the soul of all tears and celestial despair?
Paganini it was, 'twixt his dark-flowing hair.

So now we had chorus, and now we had song:
Now instruments hurrying the warble along;
Now pauses that pampered resumption; and now —
But who shall describe what was played us, or how?
'Twas wonder, 'twas transport, humility, pride;
'Twas the heart of the mistress that sat by one's side
'Twas the Graces invisible, moulding the air
Into all that is shapely, and lovely, and fair,
And running our fancies their tenderest rounds
Of endearments and luxuries, turned into sounds;
'Twas argument even, the logic of tones;
'Twas memory, 'twas wishes, 'twas laughter, 'twas moans;
'Twas pity and love, in pure impulse obeyed;
'Twas the breath of the stuff of which passion is made.

And these are the concerts I have at my will;
Then dismiss them, and laugh at your puffs and your " bill".