Anton Seidl

By John Hall Ingham (1860–1931)

(Died March 28, 1898)

NOT from his throat there came

A magic sequence of melodious sound,

Like tongues of living flame

That fire the sense and soul and all around

Shed gleams from heaven. The sway he wielded long

Was not the power of song.

Not with the plaintive reed,

Beloved of Pan and sylven deities,

Nor with the hopes that plead

Through strings that quiver into harmonies,

Hath he his triumphs won; not his that sign

Of mastery divine.

Not from creative thought

Into the faded festival of Time

Hath he fresh wonders brought.

No glorious ode nor symphony sublime

Sprang from his brain: the mystery of Art

He felt but in his heart.

And from that heart there fell

On others’ hands and voices and the soul

Of the great world a spell

That the decrees of fate could not control

Nor the wild events of life: the misery

Ceased for a while to be.

The Masters came again,

Back rolled the ages: care and folly fled

Immortal Beauty’s reign,

O, not in vain in him that now lies dead

Was born that mighty spirit at whose breath

Genius awakes from death!