Beethoven—the master spirit of his age—
Has passed away to his eternal rest,
His name belongs to history's page,
Enrolled with men the noblest and the best.
We to whom it was not given to view
His living lineaments with wond'ring eye,
May in his tones behold him pictured true
In breathing colours that can never die.
For he could paint in tones of magic force
The moody passions of the varying soul;
Now winding round the heart with playful course;
Now storming all the breast with wild control.
Forthdrawing from his unexhausted store,
'Twas his to bid the burden'd heart o'erflow,
Infusing joys it never knew before,
And melting it with soft luxuriant woe!
He liveth! It is wrong to say he's dead—
The sun, tho' smoking in the fading west,
Again shall issue from his morning bed,
Like a young giant vigorous from his rest.
He lives! for that is truly living when
Our fame is a bequest from mind to mind,
His life is in the breathing hearts of men,
Transmitted to the latest of his kind.
NOTES.
Note on Page [19].