And oft I spoke with him about the Church.
“Can I forget its holding you?” he ask’d.
“Ah, Haydn,” said I, “I remember once
When young you were, when music scarce had lured
Your soul, so thrill’d! to test its energies:
Then Gluck your master was; you follow’d him,
And far beyond your own, as then you deem’d,
Flowed forth the full perfection of his chords.
Now men see Gluck behind you. Yet, e’en now,
Before you still, sweet chords allure you on.
Ah, friend, Gluck only happen’d in the path
That open’d then beyond you. But those chords?—
Those you can reach not, Haydn, till you reach
The choirs of heaven!
“And thus, at times, I think
That I too may have happen’d in your path;
And this, your love, now looking toward myself,
May gaze, when I am gone, on holier things,
Ideal all.”
“When you—alas,” he sigh’d,
“When you are gone, then life will all become—
I fear it much—one lonely wail for you.”
“And yet a lonely wail, breathed forth,” I said,
“From one with spirit sweeten’d, sweet may seem
To earth that hears it.”
“Ah, I take the thought,
You mean my music,” answer’d he. “O God,
To save one’s art must love be sacrificed?—
Redeem’d at that price, art would be too dear!”