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The melodies and measures fraught Lofty as in the love of God,
With sunshine and the open air, And ample as the wants of man.
Of vineyards and the singing sea
Of his beloved Sicily ;

A Poet, too, was there, whose verse
And much it pleased him to peruse Was tender, musical, and terse ;
The songs of the Sicilian muse,

The inspiration, the delight, Bucolic songs by Meli sung

The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, In the familiar peasant tongile,

Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem That made men say,

“ Behold ! once The revelations of a dream,

All these were his ; but with them came The pitying gods to earth restore No envy of another's fame ; Theocritus of Syracuse !”

He did not find his sleep less sweet

For music in some neighboring street, A Spanish Jew from Alicant

Nor rustling hear in every breeze
With aspect grand and grave was there ; The laurels of Miltiades.
Vender of silks and fabrics rare,

Honor and blessings on his head
And attar of rose from the Levant. While living, good report when dead,
Like an old Patriarch he appeared, Who, not too eager for renown,
Abraham or Isaac, or at least

Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown! Some later Prophet or High-Priest ; With lustrous eyes, and olive skin, Last the Musician, as he stood And, wildly tossed from cheeks and Illumined that fire of wood ; chin,

Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, The tumbling cataract of his beard. His figure tall and straight and lithe, His garments breathed a spicy scent And every feature of his face Of cinnamon and sandal blent,

Revealing his Norwegian race ; Like the soft aromatic gales

A radiance, streaming from within, That meet the mariner, who sails Around his eyes and forehead beamed, Through the Moluccas, and the seas The Angel with the violin, That wash the shores of Celebes. Painted by Raphael, he seemed. All stories that recorded are

He lived in that ideal world By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart, Whose language is not speech, but song; And it was rumored he could say Around him evermore the throng The Parables of Sandabar,

Of elves and sprites their dances whirled ; And all the Fables of Pilpay,

The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurled Or if not all, the greater part !

Its headlong waters from the height; Well versed was he in Hebrew books, And mingled in the wild delight Talmud and Targum, and the lore The scream of sea-birds in their flight, Of Kabala ; and evermore

The rumor of the forest trees, There was a mystery in his looks; The plunge of the implacable seas, His eyes seemed gazing far away,

The tumult of the wind at night, As if in vision or in trance

Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, He heard the solemn sack but play, Old ballads, and wild melodies And saw the Jewish maidens dance. Through mist and darkness pouring

forth, A Theologian, from the school

Like Elivagar's river flowing
Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there; Out of the glaciers of the North.
Skilful alike with tongue and pen,
He preached to all men everywhere The instrument on which he played
The Gospel of the Golden Rule,

Was in Cremona's workshops made,
The New Commandment given to men, By a great master of the past,
Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Ere yet was lost the art divine ;
Would help us in our utmost need. Fashioned of maple and of pine,
With reverent feet the earth he trod, That in Tyrolian forests vast
Nor banished nature from his plan, Had rocked and wrestled with the blast:
But studied still with deep research Exquisite was it in design,
To build the Universal Church, Perfect in each minutest part,

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