114
POEMS.
THE DEATH OF PAGANINI.
(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.)
A NIGHT in May
In Italy—a casement opened wide
Unto the breezes, where the moonbeams glide,
And fall with gentlest footsteps on the brow
Of Paganini, voiceless, silent now,
For he is dead! his wondrous life is o'er,
His beauteous strains reverberate no more.
In Italy—a casement opened wide
Unto the breezes, where the moonbeams glide,
And fall with gentlest footsteps on the brow
Of Paganini, voiceless, silent now,
For he is dead! his wondrous life is o'er,
His beauteous strains reverberate no more.
The violin,
From which he drew such magic tones, is still,
The hand that swept it with such plastic skill
Lies nerveless, powerless to lift the bow,
That slips from out the grasp that loved it so.
Great genius of the Violin! no more
Shall we thy strains recall—thy life is o'er!
From which he drew such magic tones, is still,
The hand that swept it with such plastic skill
Lies nerveless, powerless to lift the bow,
That slips from out the grasp that loved it so.
Great genius of the Violin! no more
Shall we thy strains recall—thy life is o'er!
The pale face lies
Serene and rapt, the sad dark eyes are closed
In tranquil sleep, as if their sight reposed
On something that is heavenly—far away
From earth's dark night and short, imperfect day.
The long dark hair sweeps down as if to fold
These sunken limbs away from deathly cold.
Serene and rapt, the sad dark eyes are closed
In tranquil sleep, as if their sight reposed
On something that is heavenly—far away
From earth's dark night and short, imperfect day.
The long dark hair sweeps down as if to fold
These sunken limbs away from deathly cold.
O soul of fire
That burnt within thee! as the starry skies
Look down in peace, thy genius yet shall rise
That burnt within thee! as the starry skies
Look down in peace, thy genius yet shall rise
