Poems (Argent)/The Death of Paganini

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THE DEATH OF PAGANINI. (SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.)
A NIGHT in MayIn Italy—a casement opened wideUnto the breezes, where the moonbeams glide,And fall with gentlest footsteps on the browOf Paganini, voiceless, silent now,For he is dead! his wondrous life is o'er,His beauteous strains reverberate no more.
        The violin,From which he drew such magic tones, is still,The hand that swept it with such plastic skillLies nerveless, powerless to lift the bow,That slips from out the grasp that loved it so.Great genius of the Violin! no moreShall we thy strains recall—thy life is o'er!
        The pale face liesSerene and rapt, the sad dark eyes are closedIn tranquil sleep, as if their sight reposedOn something that is heavenly—far awayFrom earth's dark night and short, imperfect day.The long dark hair sweeps down as if to foldThese sunken limbs away from deathly cold.
        O soul of fireThat burnt within thee! as the starry skiesLook down in peace, thy genius yet shall rise ​In grand, unearthly cadence, in that landWhere only God and angels understand.Where only God, thy Judge, with mercy blent,Knows how to tune His living instrument.
        Then take thy rest,O weary spirit—wearied with the strifeAnd disappointment in the march of lifeThine earthly burdens death hath smoothed awayThe angel of the Resurrection DayPoints to seraphic choirs, whose pure notes ringSweet as thine own,—but freed from suffering!

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