 | Poems by William W. Story |  |
296
PROLOGUE,
SPOKEN AT THE INAUGURATION OF CRAWFORD'S BRONZE STATUE OF BEETHOVEN, AT THE BOSTON MUSIC HALL, MARCH 1, 1856.
Lift the veil! the work is finished; fresh created from the hands
Of the artist,—grand and simple, there our great Beethoven stands.
Clay no longer—he has risen from the buried mould of earth,
To a golden form transfigured by a new and glorious birth.
Art hath bid the evanescent pause and know no more decay;
Made the mortal shape immortal, that to dust has passed away.
There's the brow by thought o'erladen, with its tempest of wild hair;
There the mouth so sternly silent and the square cheeks seamed with care;
There the eyes so visionary, straining out, yet seeing naught
But the inward world of genius and the ideal forms of thought;
There the hand that gave its magic to the cold, dead, ivory keys,
And from out them tore the struggling chords of mighty symphonies.
There the figure, calm, concentred, on its breast the great head bent;—
Stand forever thus, great master! thou thy fittest monument!
Of the artist,—grand and simple, there our great Beethoven stands.
Clay no longer—he has risen from the buried mould of earth,
To a golden form transfigured by a new and glorious birth.
Art hath bid the evanescent pause and know no more decay;
Made the mortal shape immortal, that to dust has passed away.
There's the brow by thought o'erladen, with its tempest of wild hair;
297
There the eyes so visionary, straining out, yet seeing naught
But the inward world of genius and the ideal forms of thought;
There the hand that gave its magic to the cold, dead, ivory keys,
And from out them tore the struggling chords of mighty symphonies.
There the figure, calm, concentred, on its breast the great head bent;—
Stand forever thus, great master! thou thy fittest monument!
Poor in life, by friends deserted, through disease and pain and care,
Bravely, stoutly hast though striven, never yielding to despair;
High the claims of Art upholding; firm to Freedom; in a crowd
Where the highest bent as courtiers, speaking manfully and loud.
In thy silent world of deafness, broken by no human word,
Music sang with voice ideal, while thy listening spirit heard;
Tones consoling and prophetic, tones to raise, refine and cheer;
Deathless tones, that thou hast garnered to refresh and charm us here.
And for all these “riches fineless,” all these wondrous gifts of thine,
We have only Fame's dry laurel on thy careworn brow to twine.
We can only say, Great Master, take the homage of our heart;
Be the High Priest in our temple, dedicate to thee and Art;
Stand before us, and enlarge us with thy presence and thy power,
And o'er all Art's deeps and shallows light us like a beacon-tower.
Bravely, stoutly hast though striven, never yielding to despair;
High the claims of Art upholding; firm to Freedom; in a crowd
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In thy silent world of deafness, broken by no human word,
Music sang with voice ideal, while thy listening spirit heard;
Tones consoling and prophetic, tones to raise, refine and cheer;
Deathless tones, that thou hast garnered to refresh and charm us here.
And for all these “riches fineless,” all these wondrous gifts of thine,
We have only Fame's dry laurel on thy careworn brow to twine.
We can only say, Great Master, take the homage of our heart;
Be the High Priest in our temple, dedicate to thee and Art;
Stand before us, and enlarge us with thy presence and thy power,
And o'er all Art's deeps and shallows light us like a beacon-tower.
299
In the mighty realm of Music there is but a single speech,
Universal as the world is, that to every heart can reach.
Thou within that realm art monarch, but the humblest vassal there
Knows the accents of that language when it calls to war or prayer.
Underneath its world-wide Banyan, friends the gathering nations sit;
Red Sioux and dreamy German dance and feast and fight to it.
When the storm of battle rages, and the brazen trumpet blares,
Cheering on the serried tumult, in the van its meteor flares;
Sings the laurelled song of conquest, o'er the buried comrade wails,
Plays the peaceful pipes of shepherds in the lone Etrurian vales;
Whispers love beneath the lattice, where the honeysuckle clings;
Crowns the bowl and cheers the dancers, and its peace to sorrow brings;—
Nature knows its wondrous magic, always speaks in tune and rhyme;
Doubles in the sea the heaven, echoes on the rocks the chime.
All her forests sway harmonious, all her torrents lisp in song;
And the starry spheres make music, gladly journeying along.
Universal as the world is, that to every heart can reach.
Thou within that realm art monarch, but the humblest vassal there
Knows the accents of that language when it calls to war or prayer.
Underneath its world-wide Banyan, friends the gathering nations sit;
Red Sioux and dreamy German dance and feast and fight to it.
When the storm of battle rages, and the brazen trumpet blares,
Cheering on the serried tumult, in the van its meteor flares;
Sings the laurelled song of conquest, o'er the buried comrade wails,
Plays the peaceful pipes of shepherds in the lone Etrurian vales;
300
Crowns the bowl and cheers the dancers, and its peace to sorrow brings;—
Nature knows its wondrous magic, always speaks in tune and rhyme;
Doubles in the sea the heaven, echoes on the rocks the chime.
All her forests sway harmonious, all her torrents lisp in song;
And the starry spheres make music, gladly journeying along.
Thou hast touched its mighty mystery, with a finger as of fire;
Thrilled the heart with rapturous longing, bade the struggling soul aspire;
Through thy daring modulations, mounting up o'er dizzy stairs
Of harmonic change and progress, into high Elysian airs,
Where the wings of angels graze us, and the voices of the spheres
Seem not far, and glad emotions fill the silent eyes with tears.
What a vast, majestic structure thou hast builded out of sound,
With its high peak piercing Heaven, and its base deep underground.
Vague as air, yet firm and real to the spiritual eye,
Seamed with fire its cloudy bastions far away uplifted lie,
Like those sullen shapes of thunder we behold at close of day,
Piled upon the far horizon, where the jagged lightnings play.
Awful voices, as from Hades, thrill us, growling from its heart;
Sudden splendors blaze from out it, cleaving its black walls apart;
White-winged birds dart forth and vanish, singing, as they pass from sight,
Till at last it lifts, and 'neath it shows a field of amber light
Where some single star is shining, throbbing like a new-born thing,
And the earth, all drenched in splendor, lets its happy voices sing.
Thrilled the heart with rapturous longing, bade the struggling soul aspire;
Through thy daring modulations, mounting up o'er dizzy stairs
Of harmonic change and progress, into high Elysian airs,
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Seem not far, and glad emotions fill the silent eyes with tears.
What a vast, majestic structure thou hast builded out of sound,
With its high peak piercing Heaven, and its base deep underground.
Vague as air, yet firm and real to the spiritual eye,
Seamed with fire its cloudy bastions far away uplifted lie,
Like those sullen shapes of thunder we behold at close of day,
Piled upon the far horizon, where the jagged lightnings play.
Awful voices, as from Hades, thrill us, growling from its heart;
Sudden splendors blaze from out it, cleaving its black walls apart;
White-winged birds dart forth and vanish, singing, as they pass from sight,
302
Where some single star is shining, throbbing like a new-born thing,
And the earth, all drenched in splendor, lets its happy voices sing.
Topmost crown of ancient Athens towered the Phidian Parthenon;
Upon Freedom's noble forehead, Art the starry jewel, shone.
Here as yet in our Republic, in the furrows of our soil,
Slowly grows Art's timid blossom 'neath the heavy foot of toil.
Spurn it not—but spare it, nurse it, till it gladden all the land;
Hail to-day this seed of promise, planted by a generous hand—
Our first statue to an artist—nobly given, nobly planned.
Upon Freedom's noble forehead, Art the starry jewel, shone.
Here as yet in our Republic, in the furrows of our soil,
Slowly grows Art's timid blossom 'neath the heavy foot of toil.
Spurn it not—but spare it, nurse it, till it gladden all the land;
Hail to-day this seed of promise, planted by a generous hand—
Our first statue to an artist—nobly given, nobly planned.
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Never is a nation finished while it wants the grace of Art—
Use must borrow robes from Beauty, life must rise above the mart.
Faith and love are all ideal, speaking with a music tone—
And without their touch of magic, labor is the Devil's own.
Therefore are we glad to greet thee, master artist, to thy place,
For we need in all our living Beauty and ideal grace,
Mostly here, to lift our nation, move its heart and calm its nerves,
And to round life's angled duties to imaginative curves.
Mid the jarring din of traffic, let the Orphic tone of Art
Lull the barking Cerberus in us, soothe the cares that gnaw the heart.
Use must borrow robes from Beauty, life must rise above the mart.
Faith and love are all ideal, speaking with a music tone—
And without their touch of magic, labor is the Devil's own.
Therefore are we glad to greet thee, master artist, to thy place,
For we need in all our living Beauty and ideal grace,
Mostly here, to lift our nation, move its heart and calm its nerves,
And to round life's angled duties to imaginative curves.
Mid the jarring din of traffic, let the Orphic tone of Art
Lull the barking Cerberus in us, soothe the cares that gnaw the heart.
304
With thy universal language, that our feeble speech transcends,
Wing our thoughts that creep and grovel, come to us when speaking ends,
Bear us into realms ideal, where the cant of common sense
Dins no more its heartless maxims to the jingling of its pence.
Thence down dropped into the Actual, we shall on our garments bear
Perfume of an unknown region, beauty of celestial air;
Life shall wear a nobler aspect, joy shall greet us in the street;
Earthy dust of low ambition shall be shaken from our feet.
Evil spirits that torment us, into air shall vanish all,
And the magic harp of David soothe the haunted heart of Saul.
As of yore the swart Egyptians rent the air with choral song,
When Osiris' golden statue triumphing they bore along;
As along the streets of Florence, borne in glad procession went
Cimabuè's famed Madonna, praised by voice and instrument;
Let our voices sing thy praises, let our instruments combine,
Till the hall with triumph echo, for the hour and place are thine.
Wing our thoughts that creep and grovel, come to us when speaking ends,
Bear us into realms ideal, where the cant of common sense
Dins no more its heartless maxims to the jingling of its pence.
Thence down dropped into the Actual, we shall on our garments bear
Perfume of an unknown region, beauty of celestial air;
Life shall wear a nobler aspect, joy shall greet us in the street;
Earthy dust of low ambition shall be shaken from our feet.
Evil spirits that torment us, into air shall vanish all,
And the magic harp of David soothe the haunted heart of Saul.
305
When Osiris' golden statue triumphing they bore along;
As along the streets of Florence, borne in glad procession went
Cimabuè's famed Madonna, praised by voice and instrument;
Let our voices sing thy praises, let our instruments combine,
Till the hall with triumph echo, for the hour and place are thine.
| Poems by William W. Story | |