O Paganini!—most undoubted king
Of St. Cecilia's flock, alive or dead,
Whether their pasture be of pipe, or string,
Or mighty organ, which doth overspread
Ancient Cathedral aisles with flood of sound,—
In all the wizard craft, matured by labour,
That doth the spirit move, delight, astound,
Thou hast no peer—thou hast not even a neighbour,
In the long lapse of years from Tubal Cain to Weber.
Sages have said, who read the book of night,
That once each hundred years some meteor flares
Across the startled heavens with brilliant flight,
Making strange tumults in the land of stars;
And, 'mid the realm of constellations vast,
In steady splendour ever rolling on,
Sweeps far and wide with fierce and furious haste,
Rushing from pole to distant pole anon;
And, like the monarch's ghost—"'Tis here—'tis there—'tis gone!"
Thou dost to these, the meteor-born, belong,
O mighty monarch of the strings and bow!
And though it were to do sweet Cupid wrong
To call thee else like him—yet on thy brow,
And in thy curved lips and flashing eyes,
His clearest seal hath god-like Genius set,
Who bade thee from the common herd arise
And win thyself a crown—nor ever yet
Hath Art her votary graced with brighter coronet.
O that a stately temple might be reared
On some wide plain—and open to the sky—
Where all the great, the gifted, the revered
Side close to side, ensepulchred might lie!
And there, where many a breeze at evening's close
In solemn dirge around their tomb should sweep,
Should all the sons of melody repose,
That pilgrims from afar might come and weep,
And by their sainted dust a silent vigil keep!
And there together in renown should rest,
The Italian minstrel of the broken heart![29]
And he whose Requiem for a spirit blest
Was his own dirge—too early lost Mozart!
And he of the Messiah—and the flight
Of Israel's children from their bonds abhorred,
When God was cloud by day, and fire by night!
And he, who sung of darkness, at one word
Bursting to light—and Earth created by its Lord!
And many more—with whom ungentle Time
Forbids my weak and wandering verse to say;
Save one great master-spirit, whom my rhyme
Must pause to honour—for the meteor ray
Burnt with intensest radiance o'er his head;
Albeit too soon within his eager ear
The realm of sound deep silence overspread,
Whom yet the world is learning to revere—
Beethoven! he should sleep with thee—the Wizard—near!
There's left a space, beside his hallowed dust,
For thee with whom began my feeble song;
But be it long before the encroaching rust
Of Time wear out thy energies—and long
Ere the grim Tyrant with resistless call
Beckon thee hence—before thy bow be hung
In some gray chapel—and thy brethren all
Strive for thy magic instruments unstrung;
If Heaven were kind to man, thou shouldst be ever young!
A fortnight later, Chorley was able to reassure his readers by contradicting the report. It seems that the rumour was started through the death of Dr. Paganini (referred to at the beginning of this essay), and there seems little doubt but that he was the brother of the violinist.