Poems (Argent)/Farinelli's Triumph
FARINELLI'S TRIUMPH.
"It is related that the King of Spain, Philip V., was once a prey to profound melancholy, from which nothing could arouse him. His queen one day bethought her of Farinelli, the greatest singer in the world; Farinelli was accordingly sent for, and his marvellous singing was such, that it became the means of arousing the king from the apathy into which he had fallen."
WHAT voice is that?Methinks some angel from a happier sphere Hath come to gladden me, with songs that bringMy heart up to mine eyes, for lo! a tear Hath fallen down from Spain's bewildered King!
That song how sweet!It takes me back to childhood's golden clime, Ah me! how many weary days have creptAcross my path since that bright sunny time: I needs must weep as never yet I wept.
Sing on, sing on,The apathy that held me fast is gone, I feel once more a man with will to speak
That sound again!Whence comes it? 'tis like rivers running through A sea of meads where flow'rets bud and bloom,As clear as sunlight on a sky of blue That holds no cloud of dark prophetic gloom.
Sing on, sing on,Sweet singer, for 'tis passing strange once more To realise my kingly state and crown,But ah! that regal weight hath pressed full sore Until I longed to lay the sceptre down.
Prythee sing on,Oh! greatest singer of the world, nor stay Those thrilling tones and melting notes of art,With thoughts ineffable they charm away The dark forebodings in a monarch's heart.
Prythee sing on,The while I gaze upon thy matchless grace And statuesque repose, the brow that gleamsAnd crowns the perfect grandeur of a face, The ideal beauty of a poet's dreams.
Sing on, sing on,Thy greatest triumph this, to know a King Hath by thy magic strains won back his might,And by a voice borne on an angel's wing, His power to govern, as is just and right.
But He who gaveSuch high gifts to thee, will reward thee best, He knows the yearnings of thine artist's soul,He understands the song but half expressed To mortal ears, that fail to catch the whole.
Take all of wealthAnd earthly honours that are mine to give, Oh, Farinelli! at whose master touchMy soul awakened as it were to live, I cannot recompense thee over much!