Poems (Argent)/The Death of Paganini
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
In grand, unearthly cadence, in that land
Where only God and angels understand.
Where only God, thy Judge, with mercy blent,
Knows how to tune His living instrument.
That burnt within thee! as the starry skies
Look down in peace, thy genius yet shall rise
In grand, unearthly cadence, in that land
Where only God and angels understand.
Where only God, thy Judge, with mercy blent,
Knows how to tune His living instrument.
Then take thy rest,
O weary spirit—wearied with the strife
And disappointment in the march of life
Thine earthly burdens death hath smoothed away
The angel of the Resurrection Day
Points to seraphic choirs, whose pure notes ring
Sweet as thine own,—but freed from suffering!
O weary spirit—wearied with the strife
And disappointment in the march of life
Thine earthly burdens death hath smoothed away
The angel of the Resurrection Day
Points to seraphic choirs, whose pure notes ring
Sweet as thine own,—but freed from suffering!