LOUIS HECTOR BERLIOZ
[France—1803-1869.]
A prophet without honor
In his own country known
Was Louis Hector Berlioz
Who yearned but for a bone
Of French approval for his works
Which strangers always praised
But which in his own country
No great applause would raise.
"A doctor you must be, my son,"
His father sternly said,
But Louis tried to prove to him
That music ranks ahead
Of all this life's professions
And he would like to try
To win the famous Prix de Rome—
Oh, he would aim so high!
His father laughed his son to scorn,
His teachers quarreled with him,
They said he was eccentric
Then poor and hungry he left home
And three times bravely tried
To win the longed for Prix de Rome
For which ambition cried,
The third time proved to him a charm
And with his laurels crowned
He hastened to his much loved France
But there no praise he found.
An English actress he adored
And made her his first wife—
But little happiness she brought—
Naught but complaints and strife,
As a sad accident befell
This one time actress great
And as she lay so ill and cross
She ever cursed her fate.
A baby came into this home;
The hunger wolf came too,
And when the mother left this home
He knew not what to do.
He married then a second time
And sorrows thicker came
And soon he lost his only boy
As he was born 'neath planet Mars
For him there was no peace,
His life was one fierce conflict
Where troubles never cease.