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367
EPILOGUE.
A fiddle is a paltry thing,—
A thing of catgut and of wood;
It does one's temper little good
To hear a bungler scrape the string:
A thing of catgut and of wood;
It does one's temper little good
To hear a bungler scrape the string:
But let a Paganini's hand
Thereon its wondrous power essay,
And lo! beneath that magic sway
What worlds of melody expand!
Thereon its wondrous power essay,
And lo! beneath that magic sway
What worlds of melody expand!
A master-touch but lately swept
Some chords of elegiac tone,
And woke to music all its own
The spirit which within them slept.
Some chords of elegiac tone,
And woke to music all its own
The spirit which within them slept.
A feeble medium 'twas he chose,—
An instrument of compass small;
And yet from hut to palace hall
The wondrous descant rang and rose.
An instrument of compass small;
And yet from hut to palace hall
The wondrous descant rang and rose.
In plaintive murmurs, low and grave,
It moan'd and murmur'd like the sea;—
A solemn, deep monotony,
Renew'd, repeated, wave on wave.
It moan'd and murmur'd like the sea;—
A solemn, deep monotony,
Renew'd, repeated, wave on wave.
Through England's utmost breadth and length
It pass'd—that melancholy strain,
As of a noble soul in pain,
Its sadness temper'd by its strength.
It pass'd—that melancholy strain,
As of a noble soul in pain,
Its sadness temper'd by its strength.
368
The peasant heard it at his plough,—
It smote the student in his cell,—
Like balm on mourning hearts it fell,—
The blithe were touched, they knew not how.
It smote the student in his cell,—
Like balm on mourning hearts it fell,—
The blithe were touched, they knew not how.
What marvel if in some it found
An echo which would fain prolong
The rapture of so sweet a song,—
The bliss of such unearthly sound?
An echo which would fain prolong
The rapture of so sweet a song,—
The bliss of such unearthly sound?
But strings which, touch'd by minstrel skill,
Enchant the hearer's soul and sense,
Twang'd by a clown's impertinence
Are unmelodious catgut still.
Enchant the hearer's soul and sense,
Twang'd by a clown's impertinence
Are unmelodious catgut still.
And yet perchance 'tis well to learn
The limits of our proper skill,—
The difference between power and will
By sad experience to discern.
The limits of our proper skill,—
The difference between power and will
By sad experience to discern.
And those methinks are less to blame
Who mar a measure weak and mean
Than those who put what might have been
A noble harmony to shame.
Who mar a measure weak and mean
Than those who put what might have been
A noble harmony to shame.
I knew not, when my song I plann'd,
That this inverted stave required
The music of a soul inspired,
The magic of a master's hand;
That this inverted stave required
The music of a soul inspired,
The magic of a master's hand;
Nor dream'd that so minute a change—
The transposition of a rhyme—
Could thus bewilder tune and time,
Thus make expression harsh and strange.
The transposition of a rhyme—
Could thus bewilder tune and time,
Thus make expression harsh and strange.
369
Howe'er it be—my story told,
This ill-strung fiddle I resign
To fingers more expert than mine,—
To souls of more melodious mould.
This ill-strung fiddle I resign
To fingers more expert than mine,—
To souls of more melodious mould.
And if my song discordant seem,
Even let it perish, lost and drown'd
In the full stream of golden sound
Diffused by those harmonious Three.
Even let it perish, lost and drown'd
In the full stream of golden sound
Diffused by those harmonious Three.
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