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Fiesole's green hills and vales

       Remembered for Boccaccio's sake.

       Much too of music was his thought;

       The melodies and measures fraught

       With sunshine and the open air,

       Of vineyards and the singing sea

       Of his beloved Sicily;

       And much it pleased him to peruse

       The songs of the Sicilian muse—

       Bucolic songs by Meli sung

       In the familiar peasant tongue,

       That made men say, "Behold! once more

       The pitying gods to earth restore

       Theocritus of Syracuse!"

      A Spanish Jew from Alicant

       With aspect grand and grave was there;

       Vender of silks and fabrics rare,

       And attar of rose from the Levant.

       Like an old Patriarch he appeared,

       Abraham or Isaac, or at least

       Some later Prophet or High-Priest;

       With lustrous eyes, and olive skin,

       And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin,

       The tumbling cataract of his beard.

       His garments breathed a spicy scent

       Of cinnamon and sandal blent,

       Like the soft aromatic gales

       That meet the mariner, who sails

       Through the Moluccas, and the seas

       That wash the shores of Celebes.

       All stories that recorded are

       By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart,

       And it was rumored he could say

       The Parables of Sandabar,

       And all the Fables of Pilpay,

       Or if not all, the greater part!

       Well versed was he in Hebrew books,

       Talmud and Targum, and the lore

       Of Kabala; and evermore

       There was a mystery in his looks;

       His eyes seemed gazing far away,

       As if in vision or in trance

       He heard the solemn sackbut play,

       And saw the Jewish maidens dance.

      A Theologian, from the school

       Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there;

       Skilful alike with tongue and pen,

       He preached to all men everywhere

       The Gospel of the Golden Rule,

       The New Commandment given to men,

       Thinking the deed, and not the creed,

       Would help us in our utmost need.

       With reverent feet the earth he trod,

       Nor banished nature from his plan,

       But studied still with deep research

       To build the Universal Church,

       Lofty as is the love of God,

       And ample as the wants of man.

      A Poet, too, was there, whose verse

       Was tender, musical, and terse;

       The inspiration, the delight,

       The gleam, the glory, the swift flight,

       Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem

       The revelations of a dream,

       All these were his; but with them came

       No envy of another's fame;

       He did not find his sleep less sweet

       For music in some neighboring street,

       Nor rustling hear in every breeze

       The laurels of Miltiades.

       Honor and blessings on his head

       While living, good report when dead,

       Who, not too eager for renown,

       Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown!

       Last the Musician, as he stood

       Illumined by that fire of wood;

       Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe,

       His figure tall and straight and lithe,

       And every feature of his face

       Revealing his Norwegian race;

       A radiance, streaming from within,

       Around his eyes and forehead beamed,

       The Angel with the violin,

       Painted by Raphael, he seemed.

       He lived in that ideal world

       Whose language is not speech, but song;

       Around him evermore the throng

       Of elves and sprites their dances whirled;

       The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurled

       Its headlong waters from the height;

       And mingled in the wild delight

       The scream of sea-birds in their flight,

       The rumor of the forest trees,

       The plunge of the implacable seas,

       The tumult of the wind at night,

       Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing,

       Old ballads, and wild melodies

       Through mist and darkness pouring forth,

       Like Elivagar's river flowing

       Out of the glaciers of the North.

      The instrument on which he played

       Was in Cremona's workshops made,

       By a great master of the past,

       Ere yet was lost the art divine;

       Fashioned of maple and of pine,

       That in Tyrolian forests vast

       Had rocked and wrestled with the blast:

       Exquisite was it in design,

       Perfect in each minutest part,

       A marvel of the lutist's art;

       And in its hollow chamber, thus,

       The maker from whose hands it came

       Had written his unrivalled name—

       "Antonius Stradivarius."

      And when he played, the atmosphere

       Was filled with magic, and the ear

       Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold,

       Whose music had so weird a sound,

       The hunted stag forgot to bound,

       The leaping rivulet backward rolled,

       The birds came down from bush and tree,

       The dead came from beneath the sea,

       The maiden to the harper's knee!

      The music ceased; the applause was loud,

       The pleased musician smiled and bowed;

       The wood-fire clapped its hands of flame,

       The shadows on the wainscot stirred,

       And from the harpsichord there came

       A ghostly murmur of acclaim,

       A sound like that sent down at night

      

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