Hushed is the magic of his touch That waked the soul to joyous praise! The vibrant strain we loved so much Still echoes on throughout the days;
Days that had sped in steady round Thrilled by the songs his bow had bound. Stilled is the music to our ears. In higher cycles, we believe,
Brighter than earthly crown appears His genius, and shall meed receive: While in a rarer, fuller light, His touch still wakens to delight.
Then is he not as one who dies And whose brief day is ended here; For, in those worlds which Time defies, His melody grows still more clear;
Then is he not as one whose light Is darkened by Death's envious night! Thus while we wear within our thought The beauty of his god-like art
That here in eager longing sought To voice the music in his heart, O bear in mind no truth divine Of art is lost — it needs must shine
Across the waste of shipwrecked lives As o'er the brightest path below; Where'er its meaning steadfast strives To sing its measure's stately flow,
For Life is art — as art is Life — And soars above unequal strife! He gave to man the measure free The gods had given to his soul;
And, touched to deeper ecstasy, Bound Music to his sweet control. O Artist true! we deem thy death But entrance into fuller breath.
But fuller grasp of thy great work; But deeper draughts from wells divine, Where disappointment ne'er may lurk, Where round thy head the glories shine
Which crowns endeavor firm and true, And gives thee roses — never rue! Here do we leave thee with thy brow Encircled with the roses sweet;
Victory's token, crowning now Thine art with all our praises meet; Here do we leave thee, victor still, For Art bends not to Death's stern will!
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