"The pale musician of the bow": Leigh Hunt's 'Paganini'. Professor Hand, Vivienne.
In: Journal of Anglo-Italian Studies, Vol. 11, 2, 2011, p. 15-38.
This article provides a detailed analysis of Leigh Hunt's famous poem on Paganini:
Paganini
by Leigh Hunt
So played of late to every passing thought With finest change (might I but half as well So write!) the pale magician of the bow, Who brought from Italy, the tales, made true, Of Grecian lyres; and on his sphery hand, Loading the air with dumb expectancy, Suspended, ere it fell, a nation's breath. He smote, — and clinging to the serious chords With godlike ravishment, drew forth a breath, So deep, so strong, so fervid thick with love, Blissful, yet laden as with twenty prayers, That Juno yearned with no diviner soul To the first burthen of the lips of Jove. The exceeding mystery of the loveliness Saddened delight; and with his mournful look, Dreary and gaunt, hanging his pallid face 'Twixt his dark flowing locks, he almost seemed, To feeble or to melancholy eyes, One that had parted with his soul for pride, And in the sable secret lived forlorn. But true and earnest, all too happily That skill dwelt in him, serious with its joy; For noble now he smote the exulting strings, And bade them march before his stately will; And now he loved them like a cheek, and laid Endearment on them, and took pity sweet; And now he was all mirth, or all for sense And reason, carving out his thoughts like prose After his poetry; or else he laid His own soul prostrate at the feet of love, And with a full and trembling fervour deep, In kneeling and close-creeping urgency, Implored some mistress with hot tears; which past, And after patience had brought right of peace, He drew, as if from thoughts finer than hope, Comfort around him in ear-soothing strains And elegant composure; or he turned To heaven instead of earth, and raised a prayer So earnest vehement, yet so lowly sad, Mighty with want and all poor human tears, That never saint, wrestling with earthly love, And in mid-age unable to get free, Tore down from heav'n such pity. Or behold, In his despair (for such, from what he spoke Of grief before it, or of love, 'twould seem,) Jump would he into some strange wail uncouth Of witches' dance, ghastly with whinings thin And palsied nods — mirth wicked, sad, and weak. And then with show of skill mechanical, Marvellous as witchcraft, he would overthrow That vision with a shower of notes like hail, Or sudden mixtures of all difficult things Never yet heard; flashing the sharp tones now, In downward leaps like swords; now rising fine Into some utmost tip of minute sound, From whence he stepped into a higher and higher On viewless points; till laugh took leave of him: Or he would fly as if from all the world To be alone and happy, and you should hear His instrument become a tree far off, A nest of birds and sunbeams, sparkling both, A cottage-bower: or he would condescend, In playful wisdom which knows no contempt, To bring to laughing memory, plain as sight, A farm-yard with its inmates, ox and lamb, The whistle and the whip, with feeding hens In household fidget muttering evermore, And, rising as in scorn, crowned Chanticleer, Ordaining silence with his sovereign crow. Then from one chord of his amazing shell Would he fetch out the voice of quires, and weight Of the built organ; or some twofold strain Moving before him in sweet-going yoke, Ride like an Eastern conqueror, round whose state Some light Morisco leaps with his guitar; And ever and anon o'er these he'd throw Jets of small notes like pearl, or like the pelt Of lovers' sweetmeats on Italian lutes From windows on a feast-day, or the leaps Of pebbled water, sprinkled in the sun, One chord effecting all: — and when the ear Felt there was nothing present but himself And silence, and the wonder drew deep sighs, Then would his bow lie down again in tears, And speak to some one in a pray'r of love, Endless, and never from his heart to go: Or he would talk as of some secret bliss And at the close of all the wonderment (Which himself shared) near and more near would come Into the inmost ear, and whisper there Breathings so soft, so low, so full of life, Touched beyond sense, and only to be borne By pauses which made each less bearable, That out of pure necessity for relief From that heaped joy, and bliss that laughed for pain, The thunder of the uprolling house came down, And bowed the breathing sorcerer into smiles.
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