Xc

Therefore,--since Thought hankers after speech, while no speech may evince Feeling like music,--mine, o'erburdened with each gift From every visitant, at last resolved to shift Its burden to the back of some musician dead And gone, who feeling once what I feel now, instead Of words, sought sounds, and saved forever, in the same, Truth that escapes prose,--nay, puts poetry to shame. I read the note, I strike the key, I bid record The instrument,--thanks greet the veritable word! And not in vain I urge: "O dead and gone away, Assist who struggles yet, thy strength become my stay, Thy record serve as well to register--I felt And knew thus much of truth! With me, must knowledge melt Into surmise and doubt and disbelief, unless Thy music reassure--I gave no idle guess, But gained a certitude, I yet may hardly keep! What care? since round is piled a monumental heap Of music that conserves the assurance, thou as well Wast certain of the same! thou, master of the spell, Mad'st moonbeams marble, didst record what other men Feel only to forget!" Who was it helped me, then? What master's work first came responsive to my call, Found my eye, fixed my choice?