[It is said that the death-bed of Beethoven was attended only by a pupil of his own, a girl named Louise, who toiled for his support, he being in utter destitution. Like many a genius before him, he acquired more friends after death, when he needed them not, than during life.]
'Twas midnight; from the solemn skies above, The starry sentinels looked down in love Upon the world below. All earth was fair, And blessedness alone seemed reigning there; The flowers glanced upward to the tranquil skies, And seemed to worship with admiring eyes The shining host above. The soft breeze crept Through quivering leaves, and o'er the waters swept, Sounding its low-toned harp—so sweet the song, An angel might have brushed the strings along, And passed, invisible to mortal sight, Upon the heavenward sound.
It was a night For the high soul to revel in, and pour Its treasures out, and pass to come no more; For the pure heart to watch beside the dead, And almost fancy that it heard the tread, Of seraph-feet around. And who is she, That pale, fair girl, who bends so mournfully Above yon sufferer's couch! she, whose dark eye Is filled with tears to think lie thus should die, He of the high-toned heart, should die alone, With none beside herself to hear the moan From his expiring lips—to hear some note Of sudden melody a moment float Upon the air, then pass to Heaven away, Like the sweet song of birds ere break of day; Or as some soul longing to leave its prison, Sent the glad note for which the angels listen.
The weary days passed by with heavy tread, As if they wished to linger for the dead; The hearse-like night moved on, and seemed to wait With solemn touch and melancholy gait, For the expected guest—the hours crept by, And loitered to receive his latest sigh; Yet still she watched beside that bed of death, Caught his last glance and heard his last drawn breath; And when she knew his sun of life had set, Poured forth her song of sorrow and regret.
"Alone beside the dead! alone Beside the dreamless dead! With not a voice beside mine own To wail the spirit fled, To tell of all thy greatness past, How fortune o'er thee frowned, Till thy proud spirit broke at last, O, master of sweet sound!
"Speak to me yet once more! I long To hear thy voice again; Methinks pale phantoms round me throng. Ah! must I call in vain! Charm them, I pray thee, from my sight; I dread to be alone, With the dim spectres of the night, Close gathering round thine own!
"Thou wast not wont to be so still E'en in the face of wrong; Why has thy bosom ceased to thrill To the sweet voice of song? I've seen the flashing of thine eye, The mantling of thy cheek, Whilst dreaming o'er the melody, Thy lips alone could speak?
"Spent, spent at last! the gifted heart Is silent, throbless now; The mind that brought with sudden start The life-blood to the brow, Is powerless as the breeze that flies Along the ocean's breast, When not a cloud is in the skies, And every sail at rest.
"Yet it hath brought upon its wings Sweet echoes, from the shore Of many a sunny isle that rings With music evermore? Such was thy mind, glorious one, A realm of endless sound, A gush—a murmur and a moan That poured wild music round.
"And men passed by, and heard thee not, The great ones and the gay, Nor knew thy bursting heart was fraught With glory and decay; For well I know thy heart expired With the last sound it wrought; And well I know thy soul was tired Of such a world of thought!
"Is this the fate of Genius? want, And penury, and woe? Must they the gifted bosom haunt, And swell it to overflow? Then will my steps be never found Where thou, O Fame! art nigh, Since the great master of sweet sound, Beethoven, thus did die." << She paused, and bending o'er the pulseless dead, Closed the dull eye whence all the soul had fled; Then kneeling humbly, murmured forth a prayer For the tired soul that was no longer there! I know not of her farther, for her name Dwells not upon the living scroll of fame, Save as the faithful heart that hovered nigh, And paused to catch Beethoven's latest sigh.
