Poetry

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 3, 15 April 1893, Page 12

Poetry

THE OLD TENOR. Did you say the singing was only fair ? Sir, if the chance was given me To change from him on the stage up there Straight to an angels’- symphony— Well, it might stagger my poor old brain But I think, on the whole, I back should come To hear these worn sweet notes again, ■ And see yon form that is cumbersome. The why of it all ? It fell, my friend, A matter of fifteen years ago. A certain man was nigh his end, Lying wracked in a fever glow. And a fine young star, in his flush of fame, Stept to his bedside, took his hand. And tried to waken life’s spent flame By singing songs of the lovely laud. Oh, how he sang ! till the sick man turned' His face from the wall, and took deep breath, And said, as his eyes with new light yearned, That life ran sweeter far than death If one might hearken to strains like this ; And he swore he would live in death’s despite. Then sleep dropt down on him like a kiss. And he woke with his blood all cool and right. Perhaps you can fancy who was the man, And who is the singer there on the stage, And why I listen and sob, and can But love his faults and his hints of age. Some folks will say, when they pay their coin, The perfectest singer is their choice, Where youth and art and genius join ; But I like a man behind the voice ! —Richard Burton, in Harper's Weekly.