Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE NEAPOLITANS TO MOZART, by GEORGE MURRAY (1830-1910)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE NEAPOLITANS TO MOZART, by                    
First Line: Strange musical wizard! The spells of thine art
Last Line: Men have entertained angels ere now unawares!
Subject(s): Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus (1756-1791); Music & Musicians; Naples, Italy


Strange musical wizard! the spells of thine art
Can ne'er but with life from our memory depart;
The notes are now hushed, but their echo still rolls,
Like a slow-ebbing tide, o'er our passionate souls.

Fair Naples, thou know'st, is the home of sweet song,
And thither earth's minstrels all lovingly throng;
Inspired are the pilgrims who visit this shrine,
But when have we known inspiration like thine?

The kings of this world never heard on their thrones
Such rare modulations, such jubilant tones;
The music of dreams is less marvellous far
Than the chords of thy ravishing harmonies are.

With thy nostrils dilated, and tremulous lips,
Thine eyes lit with glory that nought can eclipse,
Thou seemest some Angel, and multitudes trace
God's breath passing shadow-like over thy face.

Where learnt thy weird fingers each exquisite strain
That floods our quick spirits with pleasure or pain?
Who taught thee to wake from mute ivory keys
Low moans like deep thunder, sighs soft as the breeze?

Our poets have chronicled oft in their rhyme
Fantastic old legends of madness and crime,
Of human souls bartered for gold, might, or fame,
In compact with One whom we shudder to name.

Is it thus thou hast gained supernatural skill?
Hast thou mortgaged thy soul to the Spirit of Ill?
Away with thy harmony, Wizard—but no—
Those tones are seraphic, it cannot be so.

There are beings we know of celestial birth,
Commissioned to haunt this dim planet of earth;
Their silver-winged legions float ever in air,
Our eyes may not see them, but still they are there:

Perchance some bright minister, now at thy side,
To music's keen pathos thy fingers may guide;
For, oh! thy rapt strains in their tenderness seem
Like snatches of angel-song heard in a dream.

See! see! on thy finger there flashes a gem—
Its radiance is fit for a king's diadem:
Cast off that ring, Wizard! Some musical sprite
Dwells shrined in that jewel's ineffable light.

Now, strike the still chords! Sweeter murmurs are heard
Like the whispers of love, or the song of a bird.
Our tears fall like rain, Stranger, give us thy prayers,
Men have entertained Angels ere now unawares!





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