AT BEETHOVEN'S GRAVE by IGNAZ FRANZ CASTELLI

FROM the high rock I marked a fountain breaking;
It poured its riches forth o'er glade and plain;
Where'er they streamed I saw new life awaking,
The grandam world was in her prime again;
To the charmed spot the tribes of earth came thronging,
And stoopt to that pure wave with eager longing.

Yet of these hosts few only, keener-sighted
Than were their fellows, all its glamour knew:
The simple multitude surveyed, delighted,
Its diamond glitter and its changing hue;
But -- save unto those few that saw more clearly --
That wondrous fountain was a fountain merely.

At last its source dried up, its torrent dwindled;
And all mankind discerned its virtue then;
In minstrel's breast and bard's a fire was kindled,
And brush and chisel vied with harp and pen:
But wild desire, and minstrelsy, and wailing,
To call it back to life were unavailing.

Thou who sleep'st here, thy toil, thy bondage ended!
Lo! in that fountain's tale is told thine own.
Marvelled at oft, more oft misapprehended,
By the few only thou wast truly known.
All shall exalt thee, now that low thou liest:
That thou may'st live, O deathless one, thou diest.

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