  [France—1803-1869.] A prophet without honor In his own country known Was Louis Hector Berlioz Who yearned but for a bone Of French approval for his works Which strangers always praised But which in his own country No great applause would raise. "A doctor you must be, my son," His father sternly said, But Louis tried to prove to him That music ranks ahead Of all this life's professions And he would like to try To win the famous Prix de Rome— Oh, he would aim so high! His father laughed his son to scorn, His teachers quarreled with him, They said he was eccentric Then poor and hungry he left home And three times bravely tried To win the longed for Prix de Rome For which ambition cried, The third time proved to him a charm And with his laurels crowned He hastened to his much loved France But there no praise he found. An English actress he adored And made her his first wife— But little happiness she brought— Naught but complaints and strife, As a sad accident befell This one time actress great And as she lay so ill and cross She ever cursed her fate. A baby came into this home; The hunger wolf came too, And when the mother left this home He knew not what to do. He married then a second time And sorrows thicker came And soon he lost his only boy As he was born 'neath planet Mars For him there was no peace, His life was one fierce conflict Where troubles never cease. |
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