Then slowly dawn’d on Haydn’s mind the fact, Though not, as yet, the reason of my vow. And all the household grew so mild with me, And all the neighbors gazed so piteously: If they had clothed my body in a shroud, And I had loiter’d round it there, a ghost, Life scarce had seem’d more lonely or more chill. But yet more sad than all it seem’d for me To shun poor Haydn. To his attic driven, Who knew his grief? Alas, who knew it not? Did ever harpsichord so crave a voice To utter forth a cry of full despair? Did ever aught that human hands could touch So tremble to reveal such agony As wrung the frame of him whose fingers wrought, Along the sympathetic key-board there, The counterpoint still pointing out his woe? XLVI. Through all those days how heeded I each sound, That broke the stillness in that room of his! Would hold my breath between the notes to feel His own suspense before the impending strain When fell, anon, the spirit’s overflow. I never so had trembled at the peals Of thunder as beneath the chords he struck; Nor felt my cheek so moist by rains as there By tears that flow’d as flow’d his melodies; While all the air about appear’d surcharged With dangerous force electric, touch’d alone To flash keen suffering from his heart to mine. And yet, each day, his music sweeter swell’d. Ere that, it may have lack’d in undertone, The pleading pathos of half-utter’d grief: Since then, I never hear it but it seems As if the heavens had been bereaved of love, And pour’d their sad complaint on earth beneath; And I who listen to the sweetness of it Can never tell if I should smile or weep To think that it has come so far below, Or feel that it has left so much above. XLVII.