TO CLARA N[OVELLO]
Reading edition
(1834)
The Gods have made me most unmusical, With feelings that respond not to the call Of stringed harp, or voice—obtuse and mute To hautboy, sackbut, dulcimer, and flute; King David's lyre, that made the madness flee From Saul, had been but a jew's-harp to me: Theorbos, violins, French horns, guitars, Leave in my wounded ears inflicted scars; I hate those trills, and shakes, and sounds that float Upon the captive air; I know no note, Nor ever shall, whatever folks may say, Of the strange mysteries of Sol and Fa; I sit at oratorios like a fish, Incapable of sound, and only wish The thing was over. Yet do I admire, O tuneful daughter of a tuneful sire, Thy painful labours in a science, which To your deserts I pray may make you rich As much as you are loved, and add a grace To the most musical Novello race. Women lead men by the nose, some cynics say; You draw them by the ear—a delicater way.