  [Born in Volhynia, Russia—1829-1894.] When precious gifts gods give to men, A great price they require, As we have seen in all the lives Of those they did inspire With Music's wondrous magic charm That all true men adore Be they of wild and savage state Or wise men full of lore. And so with Anton Rubinstein Who many sorrows had Not only when to manhood grown But when he was a lad. His parents were of Jewish birth Though Christians they became When cruelly persecuted Alas! in Christ's good name. His mother gave unto her boys In music their first start, And trained their minds to travel And later on she took her sons To Paris, there to learn To bring forth the great music Which in their souls did burn. When but a very little chap Anton wrote wondrous songs Describing joys and sorrows And depicting wrongs, Which when he played in public Made all his hearers sigh, Laugh aloud or clap their hands And sometimes even cry. Young Nicholas, his brother, Composed almost as well For both these music lovers Had touched Apollo's shell. But white plague took poor Nicholas Ere he could finish quite The songs the fairies whispered While Anton worked for many a year And on the ladder FAME As a sensation player Securely placed his name. To every realm of music Some work this master gave And o'er his Ocean Symphony All of the nations rave. But all his thoughts were not of love, And Liszt and Wagner airs Were classed by him as discords Not fit for country fairs. He hated also our good land, Though when upon our shore He gathered in the golden streams And held his hand for more. He traveled in most every land, Was steeped in music lore, And his great songs in number But he was never happy As in his heart was "Hate," Which shut out Fairy Happiness All mortals' proper mate. |
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