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For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude
A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S.
Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find !
and blind; But although I take your meaning, 't is with such a heavy
Here you come with your old music, and here 's all the
good it brings. What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants
were the kings, Where St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the
sea with rings?
III. Ay, because the sea 's the street there ; and 't is arched
.by ... what you call ... Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept
. the carnival : I was never out of England-it's as if I saw it all.
IV. Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was
warm in May ? Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid
day, When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do
Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so
red,On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on
its bed, O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might
base his head ?
Well, and it was graceful of them : they'd break talk off
and afford -She, to bite her mask's black velvet, he, to finger on
his sword, While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the
What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished,
sigh on sigh, Told them something ? Those suspensions, those solu
tions—“Must we die?” Those commiserating sevenths—“ Life might last! we
can but try!" .
So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you,
I dare say! “ Brave Galuppi ! that was music ! good alike at grave
and gay ! “ I can always leave off talking when I hear a master
Then they left you for their pleasure : till in due time,
one by one, Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds
as well undone, Death stepped tacitly, and took them where they never
see the sun.
But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand
nor swerve, While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close
reserve, In you come with your cold music till I creep thro' every
Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house
was burned: “ Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent
what Venice earned. “ The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be
“ Yours for instance : you know physics, something of
geology, “ Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their
degree; “ Butterflies may dread extinction,-you'll not die, it
cannot be !
XIV. “ As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom
and drop, “ Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly
were the crop : “ What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had
to stop ?
“ Dust and ashes !” So you creak it, and I want the
heart to scold. Dear dead women, with such hair, too—what 's become
of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and