“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!” LVI. One thing he promis’d me. I urged it much. “In secret convent-prayers,” I said to him, “My soul must know if it should praise or plead. A year from now, we two must meet once more. We cannot talk, and yet we may commune While I stand silent at the cloister bars. Then if your wedded life afford you joy— I doubt it not,—bring with you fresh-pluck’d flowers; If else than this, bring but the wilted stems Of these I give you now.” Then soon had pass’d The last vague hours that saw me part from all. I stood before the shrine. I feel it yet:— The organ moaning sweetly far away; The people whispering low amid the aisles; My heart so loud, nor hush’d in sermon-time; The multitude with wide eyes fix’d on me; Doretta, and my father, still and sad; And Haydn’s face upon his pale, pale hands. LVII.