Jenny Lind.
Born at Stockholm, October 6, 1821. Married Herr Otto Goldschmidt, February 5, 1852. Died, November 2, 1887.
"She never lost her interest in the two chief objects of her life, music and charity."—Times.
Music and Charity! Of all things mortal,
What sweeteners of our lives may match these twain?
What draweth hearts nearer the heavenly portal
Than mercy's impulse, melody's moving strain?
Well chosen, singer sweet!
Great gifts, and the large love of giving meet,
Well harmonised in Jenny Lind's career;
These made her life delight, these make her memory dear.
Punch, of well-fitting phrases ready minter,
Christened his favourite forty years ago;
Hailed as "The Nightingale that Sings in Winter,"[A]
The Swedish songstress whom the voice of woe
Moved ever, as her own
Moved the applauding multitude; alone,
Amidst the stars of Opera's tuneful quire,
To succour ever prompt as potent to inspire!
"Dear Jenny Lind!" So then his song addressed her
Who still is "Jenny Lind," and still is dear.
Though Genius praised, and Fashion's crowd caressed her,
She sank not, like some stars, below her sphere
Into those darkening mists
Whose taint the true and tender heart resists.
Her nature fame was powerless to soil,
Whom splendour hardened not, and puffery could not spoil.
How the crowd rushed and crushed, and cheered and clamoured,
Forty years syne, to hang upon her song!
Of La Sonnambula's heroine enamoured,
Thrilled by the flute-like trillings sweet as strong
Of their dear Nightingale.
Amina, Lucia, Alice, each they'd hail
With fervent plaudits, in whose flush and stir
Love of her silvery song was blent with love of her.
And each well earned! The crowd would press and jostle
To hear their favourite warbler, from whose throat,
Clear as the lark, and mellow as the throstle,
The limpid melody would soar and float.
Now like a shattered lute,
The Nightingale who sang in winter's mute;
But long remembered that pure life shall be,
To Music dedicate and vowed to Charity.
[A] See Punch, Vol. XVI., p. 15.
