University of Virginia Library

THE DUMB GENIUS.

Once I half credited the Israelite,
“That in expression Genius consists;”
That on the earth no Poet mute e'er lived,
Whose thoughts, most musical, were only hid
In dark, o'ershadowing silence from our ears,
Because he lacked Expression's subtle power.
But me a lesson a Dumb Genius taught,
That swept all relics of such thoughts away;
That sunk into my soul, and still is there;
And, like a spectral shade, will haunt my mind,
Till its most secret history shall be told,
To mortal ears, in ever moving verse.
Lately a youth I saw, dumb from his birth,
With a strange wildness in his roving eyes,
Which ever filled with tears of huge delight
When on a form of earthly beauty resting;
Or on a sweet, harmonious work of art—
Painting or sculpture; or some lesser thing,
Which scarce a glance could draw from idle eyes.
Not one but saw that in his breast there dwelt
A potent spirit, which from those orbs looked,
And of each thought and act was master sole.
For when in power this spirit bright appeared,
Sweet tones came bubbling to his unclosed lips,
And there, all inarticulate, they broke,
Scattering their glory on the barren air—
Fragments of melodies; notes rudely strung;
Now half a prelude to some plaintive air;
Then over every elementary form
That music owns, his rapid lips would run,
With a strange sound, unlike a human tone;
Till all its forms and sweetest notes I heard,
Only in chaos—with surprise I heard.
One day to him a clarinet I gave;
And ere by signs I could its use explain,
He understood it. When next time we met,
With a wild triumph flashing in his eyes,
And the poor toy strained in a close embrace,
He stood before me. I know not whether
By some finer sense, which feeling seems like,
Ever deaf men hear—for the Creator,
Whose almighty hand had placed its finger
On his silent tongue, had closed the portals
Of his ear, and thence shut out all music;—
But I have heard, if 'tween a deaf man's teeth
Be placed a sounding instrument, he hears it.
How this may be I cannot surely tell:
Yet, if the Dumb Boy heard no sound he made,
At least, he felt the harmony, which came,
Like a long ray of purest light, upon
His listeners, and their beaming faces lit
With inspiration kindred to his own;
As he stood 'mong us, like melodious Pan
Amid a herd of rude, uncultured clowns,
Swaying our minds, whichever way he list,
By strains which seemed to come from other worlds;
So unlike earthly music were his airs,
So different, and, to me, so far above
All cultivated tones. Eye, hand and foot
Kept measure to the notes, seeming to follow
Some orchestra vast that roared within him.
Or, with low murmuring tones, sought to fling wide
The silver gates of tears, and flood the soul
With every feeling kind of sympathy,
Which, in such moments, man can feel for man.
Surely these tender melodies were formed
From pre-existent mental harmonies
Which slumbered in his breast; from feelings mute,
Or not existing even, in other men.
How such a one, on whom all sound was lost,
Should, by mere force of untaught genius, thus
Such wonderful creations, body forth,
I leave to those who deem all equal born!
Long ere they found expression, I had seen
These powers and feelings starting into life,
Spreading their influence o'er the total man,
And vexing his strong spirit. Had not I
To the Dumb Boy that little wind toy given,
The great desire t'impart to other men
Part of his melody, unslaked had lain,
And all his world of music had been hid,
For want of mere expression; though not less
Having existence in his inmost soul.
With that poor gift, his utter destiny
Seemed to himself fulfilled. Nor more he roamed,
With discontented look and glaring eyes,
And found no place to rest his thought-tossed form.
Happy, contented, now, he musing sits
Beneath the sill of his low cottage door,
Wrapt in the cloud of natural perfumes
A thousand flowerets from their censers swing,
Teaching his instrument the varied tones
That rise, unbidden, in his placid breast;
While o'er the tranquil scene his mild eyes roam,
Filled to the brim with waters of pure love
For all he gazes on. Oft here the Clown,
At evening journeying home, throws down his spade,
Or stops his home-sick team, and lists to airs
That bear him, on their wings, back to fair flowers
And songs of sweetest birds: so wild his notes,
So like the natural tones we ever hear,
In fields and groves, on warm, sunshiny days,
That I, when giving loose to fancy's vein,
Say a skylark is prisoned in his soul,
That, wheeling in its aëry circles, mounts
Towards the closed portals of his voiceless mouth.
Yes! grateful, will I thank thee, poor Dumb Bard!
Who taught this lesson for a paltry toy;—
For he on me as benefactor looks—
O! rich exchange! That I could ever add
Such joy to sense, such wisdom to the mind,
At cost like this, the price I e'er would find!