PABLO DE SARASATE.

Who comes, to-day, with sunlight on his face,

And eyes of fire, that have a sorrow's trace,

But are not sad with sadness of the years,

Or hints of tears?

He is a king, or I mistake the sign,

A king of song,— a comrade of the Nine,—

The Muses’ brother, and their youngest one,

This side the sun.

See how he bends to greet his soul's desire,

His violin, which trembles like a lyre,

And seems to trust him, and to know his touch,

Belov'd so much!

He stands full height; he draws it to his breast,

Like one, in joy, who takes a wonder-guest,—

A weird, wild thing, bewitched from end to end,—

To be his friend.

And who can doubt the right it has to lie

So near his heart, and there to sob and sigh,

And there to shake its octaves into notes

With bird-like throats.

Ah! see how deftly, with his lifted bow,

He strikes the chords of ecstasy and woe,

And wakes the wailing of the sprite within

That knows not sin.

A thousand heads are turn'd to where he stands,

A thousand hopes are moulded to his hands,

And, like a storm-wind hurrying from the north,

A shout breaks forth.

It is the welcome that of old was given

To Paganini ere he join'd in Heaven

The angel-choirs of those who serve aright

The God of Light.

It is the large, loud utterance of a throng

That loves a faith-employ'd, impassion'd song;

A song that soothes the heart, and makes it sad,—

Yet keeps us glad.

For look! how bearded men and women fair

Shed tears and smile, and half repeat a prayer

And half are shamed in their so mean estate,

And he so great!

This is the young Endymion out of Spain

Who, laurel-crown'd, has come to us again

To re-intone the songs of other times

In far-off climes.

To prove again that Music, by the plea

Of all men's love, has link'd from sea to sea

All shores of earth in one serene and grand

Symphonic land.

Oh! hush the while! Oh! hush! A bird has sung

A Mayday bird has trill'd without a tongue,

And now,‘ twould seem, has wandered out of sight

For sheer delight.

A phantom bird!‘ Tis gone where all things go —

The wind, the rain, the sunshine, and the snow,

The hopes we nurs'd, the dead things lately pass'd —

All dreams at last.

The towers of light, the castles in the air,

The queenly things with diamonds in their hair,

The toys of sound, the flowers of magic art —

All these depart.

They seem'd to live; and lo! beyond recall,

They take the sweet sad Silence for a pall,

And, wrapt therein, consent to be dismiss'd,

Though glory-kiss'd.

O pride of Spain! O wizard with a wand

More fraught with fervours of the life beyond

Than books have taught us in these tawdry days,

Take thou my praise.

Aye, take it, Pablo! Though so poor a thing,

‘ Twill serve to mind thee of an English spring

When wealth, and worth, and fashion, each and all,

Obey'd thy thrall.

The lark that sings its love-song in the cloud

Is God-inspired and glad,— but is not proud,—

And soon forgets the salvos of the breeze,

As thou dost these.

The shouts, the praises, and the swift acclaim,

That men have brought to magnify thy name,

Affect thee barely as an idle cheer

Affects a seer.

But thou art ours, O Pablo! ours to-day,

Ours, and not ours, in thy triumphant sway;

And we must urge it by the right that brings

Honour to kings.

Honour to thee, thou stately, thou divine

And far-famed minstrel of a mighty line!

Honour to thee, and peace, and musings high,

Good-night! Good-bye!