AN IMPROVISATION ON THE VIOLIN
Suggested by the records of Beethoven's deafness.
SONATA QUASI UNA FANTASIA.
HEART, false heart, why tearest thou me again?
May not the quick soul-fire be quenched, the fount Of tears be wasted in the withered eyes?
Are there yet men for whom my breast must bleed, My soul be shattered? Ah! most pitiless Muse! Am I not deaf and very old with sorrow?
Nay, Power implacable! I heed thee not!
Thou, and thy steadfast eyes and wings that soar
Straight to the centre of the sun-Forbear!
Forbear them! lest I perish-nay, sweet Queen!
Lest, like some lonely pelican, I feed
My fasting children with life blood and die!
Ah me! in vain I plead! Hark how the chords
Come crowding-how like hammer-strokes they fall—
The measured blows of brazen-fingered Fate.
Of brazen-footed Fate the heavy tread,
Of brazen wings the winnowing! Stroke on stroke,
On the vexed anvil of my soul they throb,
Pauseless. Did thus the Titan groan, whom Zeus
Rove to the houseless rock and gave a prey
To frost and fire and the sharp vulture's beak?
Did he thus idly wrestle? Till the dews
Of evening fell, and from the nether mist
Rose maiden choirs of Oceanides
To soothe his sorrow. Even so my soul
Melts with melodious ministration, soothes
Her sorrow in the solace of a song;
Fitfully floats upon the wings of dreaming,
Flutters and floats. Dim faces of the past,
Dear voices which I heard but hear no more,
The laughter and the love of long ago,
Sphere me with sweetness. But-ah! woe is me!
Again the chords come crashing! No, no, no!
The brazen tongue of Fate, the trumpet-tongue,
Scornfully-through the chambers of my brain
Blown like a crack of doom-scatters the dream,
And slays me! Now the trampling of swift steeds-
Now the sharp clangour of the jarring car:-
Where will ye whirl me? Flames around the wheels
Bicker, and iron hooves on flinty ways
Strike sparks: I feel the fury of strong winds!
Ay! combat; toss me down the sleety surge;
Sustain and slacken; buffet me with blows;—
I can endure. Mid-ways the stars are rolled
In azure, and the solemn night rides clear.
I mark the billows of high hilltops laid
Beneath me: on the dark, as on a sea,
Forward I sail. The tumult and the din
Die downward: but soul-terror, like a spell,
Broods on this solitude. The leaden chords
Fall one by one, like raindrops, when a storm
Weeps out her last low sob and down the hills
Draws early twilight. Hush! what sounds are these?
Rustling of leaves on beechen boughs and birch
And branches of green oak. Athwart them glides
Clear summer sunlight, and a breeze above
Sings summer-laden with fresh scent of flowers.
The woodland laughs, and peeping faces peer,
Faunlike or Satyrlike! Even so I strayed,
Years since, through forest-aisles, and sang; while yet
The hours flew not uncomforted of song,
Nor on insensible ears this veil had fallen
Deadening like drifted snow the feet of sound.
Ah! dark and lonely-very lone and dark-
Shut out, ah me! from human speech, my soul
Pines like a banished thing of shame apart,
Mourns like an orphan! Yea, when cities ring,
Wrought by my melodies to rapture, I,
Their maker, through the symphonies and hymns,
Through the triumphant trumpet-clang and wail
Of passionate viols and pathetic flutes,
Sit, see the tears that flow, the earnest eyes,
The fiery souls forth-gazing-sit unmoved,
Of all those eager and impetuous crowds
Passionless alone and cold-except for sorrow!
Yet even thus I triumph! Even thus,
Through silence and dark dungeon-hours unsunned,
With thee, thou prisonless angel, soul of song,
That seekest not for sound of pipe or flute,
Or resonant tube, or human voice divine,
I commune! Thou dost visit me and wave
Thy wings harmonious at the bars that seal
My cell, painting with splendour the dull walls!
So mused the master; while, as if in wrath,
The vexed reverberations of his viol,
Fitfully stricken, like a lute that lies
Forgotten by some window-chink and bears
The rude caresses of the wandering wind,
Flung to the void tones dissonantly jangled,
With here a shuddering shriek, and here a discord,
Sharp as the rasped teeth of a rusty saw,
Wrenched from the scrannel strings. Yet that great soul
Lay pent within close prison walls, nor heard
How the racked viol, like a tortured fiend,
Made music unmelodious; but heard
The everlasting harmonies, and through
The sphery regions of sidereal song
Voyaged; his large eyes vacant, and his brow
Bent with its weight of curls upon the bow.
AWN whitened-for it was midsummer dawn
O'er dim Pentelicus. The sleep that lay
On those two lovers, melted like a mist,
Leaving their spirits bare beneath the skies
Of lofty purpose. Nor to flinch or fail
Was theirs. But, having bathed pure limbs, they stepped Into the stirless city-streets, the arm
Of brave Cratinus round the sinewy girth
Of his tall comrade twining. So they moved;
And morning grew around them, with a press
And pulse of coming glory, ever more
Flame-pure from base to zenith of clear skies;
Till by the cell of Epimenides
Standing, they saw the golden face upraised
Of Phoebus; and the pale priest welcomed them
With: "Hail, thrice hail! beloved of heaven, the sons
Of Athens, and her saviours, who have dared
Thus in her sorest need, at price of pain
And laughter lost in death, to purchase honour !
Assume the robe of sacrifice; the crown
Of innocent flowers, for you by fate foreseen,
On locks of youth and manhood's crispy curls
Lay joyfully for lo, the elders sound,—
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