ANTON RUBINSTEIN
[Born in Volhynia, Russia—1829-1894.]
When precious gifts gods give to men,
A great price they require,
As we have seen in all the lives
Of those they did inspire
With Music's wondrous magic charm
That all true men adore
Be they of wild and savage state
Or wise men full of lore.
And so with Anton Rubinstein
Who many sorrows had
Not only when to manhood grown
But when he was a lad.
His parents were of Jewish birth
Though Christians they became
When cruelly persecuted
Alas! in Christ's good name.
His mother gave unto her boys
In music their first start,
And trained their minds to travel
And later on she took her sons
To Paris, there to learn
To bring forth the great music
Which in their souls did burn.
When but a very little chap
Anton wrote wondrous songs
Describing joys and sorrows
And depicting wrongs,
Which when he played in public
Made all his hearers sigh,
Laugh aloud or clap their hands
And sometimes even cry.
Young Nicholas, his brother,
Composed almost as well
For both these music lovers
Had touched Apollo's shell.
But white plague took poor Nicholas
Ere he could finish quite
The songs the fairies whispered
While Anton worked for many a year
And on the ladder FAME
As a sensation player
Securely placed his name.
To every realm of music
Some work this master gave
And o'er his Ocean Symphony
All of the nations rave.
But all his thoughts were not of love,
And Liszt and Wagner airs
Were classed by him as discords
Not fit for country fairs.
He hated also our good land,
Though when upon our shore
He gathered in the golden streams
And held his hand for more.
He traveled in most every land,
Was steeped in music lore,
And his great songs in number
But he was never happy
As in his heart was "Hate,"
Which shut out Fairy Happiness
All mortals' proper mate.