The Fifth Symphony

WHO says, Beethoven, that thy spirit fled
Returns not from the dead,
Or that a bearded lion’s rage divine
Is any match for thine,
When, wrapped in silence and in slumber cloaked,
Thy sad soul is invoked ?
Thee oftenest would we strictly venerate, —
Thee first, though others wait,
Who, shrined in memory and of mighty mould,
Can never have thy hold !
As figures dimly outlined in a glass,
So pass they and repass,
So rise and fall: Schubert, the Wanderer ;
Mozart, the ponderer
Of flawless melody; Händel, whose themes
Make pale a conqueror’s dreams ;
Berlioz, who blends the skill of the musician
With that of the magician, —
A querulous shade that, called to life again,
Brings shadows in its train.
What wonder that our hearts, responsive glowing,
Are filled to overflowing,
And cannot hold what earth and air in vain
Are struggling to retain;
Or that such music, when it walks abroad,
Is worshiped like a god ?
Yet, sad Beethoven, when we own thy sway,
We wish all else away!
Hark ! from the underworld a rush of sound
So startling, so profound,
The brain is swimming and the heart beats faster
With terror of the master.
’T is he ! No human breast at which he knocks
But instantly unlocks,
And the round world, o’er which he loved to brood,
Is subject to his mood.
But this heart-searching, thrice-repeated strain,
That is not joy nor pain !
“ Mortals,” it says, as plain as words could say,
“Ye creatures of a day!
Alas, to dance with you, perchance to sup,
Why have ye called me up ?
Is nothing sacred, — not the tasted wave,
Nor the untroubled grave ?
Oh, from your souls remove this latest stain,
And let me sleep again ! ”