To Paganini
By Thomas Oldham
Long to the world have all the mouths of Fame,
O Paganini! thunder'd forth thy name;
Nations have vied their plausive voice to raise,
And swell the general chorus of thy praise.
Though not so loud, more dear the applause to thee
Of all the favour'd sons of harmony,
Who, with one full consent, admiring own }
Thee as their master monarch thee alone; }
And humbly bow before thee on thy throne.}
O'er all musicians thou stand'st far apart;
Thou hast created for thyself an art.
As, in the natural world, around the sun
The planets their career of brightness run,
Each moving in an orbit of its own,
And all obeying laws to science known.
Musicians thus, each blest with his degree
Of talent by the God of harmony,
Shine forth distinguish'd in their several ways,
While every one the rules of art obeys.
We calculate the merits of their name,
And pay them their proportion'd share of fame.
Not thus in Honour's region thou career'st;
Thou comet-like to fancy's ken appear'st,
Like comet, blazing in its bold career,
That leaves behind the planetary sphere,
And rushes towards the centre of the sun
Till with Apollo's self it seems but one.
A Genius, an Original, art thou,
Such as the astounded world ne'er heard till now.
When thou dost take thy magic bow in hand
What mortal ear the enchantment can withstand?
Transported, we admire thy peerless skill;
Thou movest our feelings, passions, at thy will;
With fear we tremble, we with anger glow,
Soft from our eyes the tears of pity flow;
Or when thou play'st a gay, fantastic strain,
From mirth and laughter who can then refrain?
Such is thy music's power to rule the heart,
Thou may'st be call'd the Shakspeare of thine art.