The poor violoncellist had eagerly listened to the words of him he so venerated—whom he looked on as a superior being. While he talked to him as an equal, while he acknowledged his genius, lamented his faults, and gave him hope that all was not yet lost, the spirit of the degraded creature revived within him. It was the waking of his mind's energies; the struggle of the soul for life against the lethargy of a mortal malady. Life triumphed! Mara was once more a man; but overcome by the conflict and by the last generous offer, he sank back, bowed his face upon his hands, and wept aloud.
"Come," cried Mozart, after a pause, during which his own eyes moistened—"come, we have no time to lose. I go out to-night by the evening post for Vienna; you must accompany me. Take this purse, put your dress in order, and make haste. I will call for you at eight. Be ready then. Not a word more." And forcing a well-filled purse into his trembling hands, the master hastened away too quickly to hear a word of thanks from the man he had saved from worse than death.
The great composer was early summoned from this and many other works of mercy and benevolence. But if this noble design was unaccomplished, at least good seed was sown, and Mara placed once more within view of the goal of virtuous hope. Rescued from the mire of degradation, he might, by perseverance, have won the prize; if he did not, the fault was wholly his own. Whatever the termination of his career, the moral lesson is for us the same.
Discipline.
A block of marble caught the glance
Of Buonarotti's eyes,
Which brightened in their solemn deeps,
Like meteor-lighted skies.
And one who stood beside him listened,
Smiling as he heard;
For, "I will make an angel of it!"
Was the sculptor's word.
And soon mallet and chisel sharp
The stubborn block assailed,
And blow by blow, and pang by pang,
The prisoner unveiled.
A brow was lifted, high and pure;
The wak'ning eyes outshone;
And as the master sharply wrought,
A smile broke through the stone!
Beneath the chisel's edge, the hair
Escaped in floating rings;
And, plume by plume, was slowly freed
The sweep of half-furled wings.
The stately bust and graceful limbs
Their marble fetters shed,
And where the shapeless block had been,
An angel stood instead!
O blows that smite! O hurts that pierce
This shrinking heart of mine!
What are ye but the Master's tools
Forming a work divine?
O hope that crumbles to my feet!
O joy that mocks, and flies!
What are ye but the clogs that bind
My spirit from the skies?
Sculptor of souls! I lift to thee
Encumbered heart and hands:
Spare not the chisel! set me free,
However dear the bands.
How blest, if all these seeming ills
Which draw my thoughts to thee
Should only prove that thou wilt make
An angel out of me!
From The German Of Dr. B. Werneke.