To whom all tongues and lands were known,
And yet a lover of his own;
With many a social virtue graced, And yet a friend of solitude;
A man of such a genial mood The heart of all things he embraced, And yet of such fastidious taste, He never found the best too good. Books were his passion and delight, And in his upper room at home Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome, In vellum bound, with gold bedight, Great volumes garmented in white, Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. He loved the twilight that surrounds The border-land of old romance; Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, And mighty warriors sweep along, Magnified by the purple mist, The dusk of centuries and of song. The chronicles of Charlemagne, Of Merlin and the Mort d'Arthure, Mingled together in his brain
With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur, Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain.
A young Sicilian, too, was there;- In sight of Etna born and bred, Some breath of its volcanic air
Was glowing in his heart and brain, And, being rebellious to his liege, After Palermo's fatal siege, Across the western seas he fled, In good King Bomba's happy reign. His face was like a summer night, All flooded with a dusky light;
His hands were small; his teeth shone white As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke;
His sinews supple and strong as oak;
Clean shaven was he as a priest, Who at the mass on Sunday sings,
Save that upon his upper lip
His beard, a good palm's length at least, Level and pointed at the tip,
Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings.
The poets read he o'er and o'er,
And most of all the Immortal Four Of Italy; and next to those, The story-telling bard of prose, Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales Of the Decameron, that make 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,
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, Abrahanı 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,
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