From the archives of the ages, with new interest, to learn,
Oh, the answer is the same, ere our generation
That great pen hath gathered rust
And that hand hath turned to dust,
And that mind hath left behind only its creation!
Oh, the answer is the same, ere our generation
That great pen hath gathered rust
And that hand hath turned to dust,
And that mind hath left behind only its creation!
We may prize the thoughts that live on the artist's canvas,
Thoughts that bloom in wintry hours,
Wrought from the enkindled powers
Of a nature and a mind, stamping their own impress;
With a thought of whose they are and from whom they came, we turn,
Of the place of his abode,
Of his life's oft chequered road,
Of his genius and his nature with keen interest, to learn,
Tis the same; the brush that moved o'er the fadeless canvas
Hath been idle many a day,
And the despot of decay
Hath enslaved the mighty brain, leaving but its impress.
Thoughts that bloom in wintry hours,
Wrought from the enkindled powers
Of a nature and a mind, stamping their own impress;
With a thought of whose they are and from whom they came, we turn,
Of the place of his abode,
Of his life's oft chequered road,
Of his genius and his nature with keen interest, to learn,
Tis the same; the brush that moved o'er the fadeless canvas
Hath been idle many a day,
And the despot of decay
Hath enslaved the mighty brain, leaving but its impress.
We may list to music's power 'till its spell hath bound us,
Weaving all its silken chords,
Linked perchance with golden words,
Like bright fetters of delight clinging gently 'round us;
But when from its sundered shreds with a new desire we turn,
Of the soul that in them lives,
Of the mind that to them gives
All their meaning and their beauty and their mystery, to learn,
Still the records will repeat that the great musician,
Whose notes sway the world at will
Silent now, ah, strangely still,
Hath lived out his brief career and fulfilled his mission.
Weaving all its silken chords,
Linked perchance with golden words,
Like bright fetters of delight clinging gently 'round us;
But when from its sundered shreds with a new desire we turn,
Of the soul that in them lives,
Of the mind that to them gives
All their meaning and their beauty and their mystery, to learn,
Still the records will repeat that the great musician,
Whose notes sway the world at will
Silent now, ah, strangely still,
Hath lived out his brief career and fulfilled his mission.
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