The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Paganini
BLANK VERSE.
PAGANINI.
A FRAGMENT.
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So play'd of late to every passing thoughtWith finest change (might I but half as wellSo write!) the pale magician of the bow,Who brought from Italy the tales, made true,Of Grecian lyres; and on his sphery hand,Loading the air with dumb expectancy,Suspended, ere it fell, a nation's breath.
He smote,—and clinging to the serious chordsWith godlike ravishment, drew forth a breath,So deep, so strong, so fervid thick with love,Blissful, yet laden as with twenty prayers,That Juno yearn'd with no diviner soulTo the first burthen of the lips of Jove.
The exceeding mystery of the lovelinessSadden'd delight; and with his mournful look,Dreary and gaunt, hanging his pallid face'Twixt his dark flowing locks, he almost seem'd,To feeble or to melancholy eyes,One that had parted with his soul for pride,And in the sable secret liv'd forlorn.
But true and earnest, all too happily That skill dwelt in him, serious with its joy;For noble now he smote the exulting strings,And bade them march before his stately will;And now he lov'd them like a cheek, and laidEndearment on them, and took pity sweet;And now he was all mirth, or all for senseAnd reason, carving out his thoughts like proseAfter his poetry; or else he laidHis own soul prostrate at the feet of love,And with a full and trembling fervour deep,In kneeling and close-creeping urgency,Implor'd some mistress with hot tears; which past,And after patience had brought right of peace,He drew, as if from thoughts finer than hope,Comfort around him in ear-soothing strainsAnd elegant composure; or he turn'dTo heaven instead of earth, and rais'd a pray'rSo earnest vehement, yet so lowly sad,Mighty with want and all poor human tears,That never saint, wrestling with earthly love,And in mid-age unable to get free,Tore down from heav'n such pity. Or behold,In his despair, (for such, from what he spokeOf grief before it, or of love, 'twould seem,)Jump would he into some strange wail uncouthOf witches' dance, ghastly with whinings thinAnd palsied nods—mirth wicked, sad, and weak.And then with show of skill mechanical,Marvellous as witchcraft, he would overthrowThat vision with a show'r of notes like hail,Or sudden mixtures of all difficult thingsNever yet heard; flashing the sharp tones now,In downward leaps like swords; now rising fineInto some utmost tip of minute sound,From whence he stepp'd into a higher and higherOn viewless points, till laugh took leave of him:Or he would fly as if from all the worldTo be alone and happy, and you should hear His instrument become a tree far off,A nest of birds and sunbeams, sparkling both,A cottage-bow'r: or he would condescend,In playful wisdom which knows no contempt,To bring to laughing memory, plain as sight,A farm-yard with its inmates, ox and lamb,The whistle and the whip, with feeding hensIn household fidget muttering evermore,And, rising as in scorn, crown'd Chanticleer,Ordaining silence with his sovereign crow.Then from one chord of his amazing shellWould he fetch out the voice of quires, and weightOf the built organ; or some two-fold strainMoving before him in sweet-going yoke,Ride like an Eastern conqueror, round whose stateSome light Morisco leaps with his guitar;And ever and anon o'er these he'd throwJets of small notes like pearl, or like the peltOf lovers' sweetmeats on Italian lutesFrom windows on a feast-day, or the leapsOf pebbled water, sprinkled in the sun,One chord effecting all:—and when the earFelt there was nothing present but himselfAnd silence, and the wonder drew deep sighs,Then would his bow lie down again in tears,And speak to some one in a pray'r of love,Endless, and never from his heart to go:Or he would talk as of some secret bliss,And at the close of all the wonderment(Which himself shar'd) near and more near would comeInto the inmost ear, and whisper thereBreathings so soft, so low, so full of life,Touch'd beyond sense, and only to be borneBy pauses which made each less bearable,That out of pure necessity for reliefFrom that heap'd joy, and bliss that laugh'd for pain,The thunder of th' uprolling house came down,And bow'd the breathing sorcerer into smiles.