To Miss R. B.47
A graceful fiction of the olden day
Tells us that, by a mighty master’s sway,
A city rose, obedient to the lyre;
That his sweet strains rude matter could inspire
With zeal his harmony to emulate;
Thus to the spot where that sweet singer sat
The rocks advanced, in symmetry combined,
To form the palace and the temple joined.
The arts are sisters, and united all,
So architecture answered music’s call.
In modern days such feats no more we see,
And matter dares ’gainst mind a rebel be;
The faith is gone such miracles which wrought;
Masons and carpenters must aid our thought;
The harp and voice in vain would try their skill
To raise a city on our hard-bound soil;
The rocks have lain asleep so many a year,
Nothing but gunpowder will make them stir;
I doubt if even for your voice would come
The smallest pebble from its sandy home;
But, if the minstrel can no more create,
For building, if he live a little late,
He wields a power of not inferior kind,
No longer rules o’er matter, but o’er mind.
And when a voice like yours its song doth pour,
If it can raise palace and tower no more,
It can each ugly fabric melt away,
Bidding the fancy fairer scenes portray;
Its soft and brilliant tones our thoughts can wing
To climes whence they congenial magic bring;
As by the sweet Italian voice is given
Dream of the radiance of Italia’s heaven.
Whether in round, low notes the strain may swell,
As if some tale of woe or wrong to tell,
Or swift and light the upward notes are heard,
With the full carolling clearness of a bird,
The stream of sound untroubled flows along,
And no obstruction mars your finished song.
No stifled notes, no gasp, no ill-taught graces,
No vulgar trills in worst-selected places,
None of the miseries which haunt a land
Where all would learn what so few understand,
Afflict in hearing you; in you we find
The finest organ, and informed by mind.
And as, in that same fable I have quoted,
It is of that town-making artist noted,
That, where he leaned his lyre upon a stone,
The stone stole somewhat of that lovely tone,
And afterwards each untaught passer-by,
By touching it, could rouse the melody,—
Even thus a heart once by your music thrilled,
An ear which your delightful voice has filled,
In memory a talisman have found
To repel many a dull, harsh, after-sound;
And, as the music lingered in the stone,
After the minstrel and the lyre were gone,
Even so my thoughts and wishes, turned to sweetness,
Lend to the heavy hours unwonted fleetness;
And common objects, calling up the tone,
I caught from you, wake beauty not their own.