Belov'd of all to whom that Muse is dear 
Who hid her spirit of rapture from the Greek, 
Whereby our art excelleth the antique, 
Perfecting formal beauty to the ear; 
Thou that hast been in England many a year 
The interpreter who left us nought to seek, 
Making Beethoven's inmost passion speak, 
Bringing the soul of great Sebastian near. 
Their music liveth ever, and 'tis just 
That thou, good Joachim, so high thy skill, 
Rank (as thou shalt upon the heavenly hill) 
Laurel'd with them, for thy ennobling trust 
Remember'd when thy loving hand is still 
And every ear that heard thee stopt with dust.