A Toccata Of Galuppi's
I.
Oh
Galuppi,
Baldassaro,
this
is
very
sad
to
find!
I
can
hardly
misconceive
you;
it
would
prove
me
deaf
and
blind;
But
although
I
take
your
meaning,
'tis
with
such
a
heavy
mind!
II.
Here
you
come
with
all
your
music,
and
here's
all
the
good
it
brings.
What,
they
lived
once
thus
at
Venice
where
the
merchants
were
the
kings,
Where
Saint
Mark's
is,
where
the
Doges
used
to
wed
the
sea
with
rings?
III.
Ay,
because
the
sea's
the
street
there;
and
'tis
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
you
say?
V.
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?
VI.
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
clavichord?
VII.
What?
Those
lesser
thirds
so
plaintive,
sixths
diminished,
sigh
on
sigh,
Told
them
something?
Those
suspensions,
those
solutions—-``Must
we
die?''
Those
commiserating
sevenths—-``Life
might
last!
we
can
but
try!''
VIII.
``Were
you
happy?''—-``Yes.''—-``And
are
you
still
as
happy?''—-``Yes.
And
you?''
—-``Then,
more
kisses!''—-``Did
I
stop
them,
when
a
million
seemed
so
few?''
Hark,
the
dominant's
persistence
till
it
must
be
answered
to!
IX.
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
play!''
X.
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.
XI.
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
nerve.
XII.
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
discerned.
XIII.
``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?
XV.
``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
grown
old.
Robert Browning
Robert Browning (born May 7, 1812, London—died Dec. 12, 1889, Venice) major English poet of the Victorian age, noted for his mastery of dramatic monologue and psychological portraiture. His most noted work was The Ring and the Book (1868–69), the story of a Roman murder trial in 12 books. Through all the vicissitudes of critical reputation, however, Browning’s major contribution to the canon of children’s literature, “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” has retained its popular audience. At the time of his death in 1889, he was one of the most popular poets in England.