Page images
PDF
EPUB

And wished her thither, till she, answering,

rose,

Loth to leave these her friends, yet fain for

those,

More distant but more dear, whose lips were placed

Warm on the Bridegroom's, passionately chaste.

I know not; this I know: mine ear shall keep Those great soprano sounds until I sleep; And this I know: her brow, her hair, her

eye,

Shall be to me a glory till I die!

Frederic Lawrence Knowles.

TO JANE

The keen stars were twinkling,

And the fair moon was rising among them, Dear Jane.

The guitar was tinkling,

But the notes were not sweet till you sung

them

Again.

As the moon's soft splendor

O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven

Is thrown,

So your voice most tender

To the strings without soul had then given Its own.

The stars will awaken,

Though the moon sleep a full hour later
To-night;

No leaf will be shaken

Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight.

Though the sound overpowers,
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone

Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

THE MUSIC - HALL

The curtain on the grouping dancers falls, The heaven of color has vanished from our

eyes;

Stirred in our seats we wait with vague sur

mise

What haply comes that pleases or that palls. Touched on the stand the thrice-struck baton calls,

Once more I watch the unfolding curtain rise, I hear the exultant violins premise

The well-known tune that thrills me and enthralls.

Then trembling in my joy I see you flash

Before the footlights to the cymbals' clash, With laughing lips, swift feet, and brilliant glance,

You, fair as heaven and as a rainbow bright, You, queen of song and empress of the dance, Flower of mine eyes, my love, my heart's delight!

Theodore Wratislaw.

A PRELUDE

You shall play me, and you please,
Little conjurer of keys,

From the masters, music-blessed,

Playing what I love the best.

Something sweet of Schumann's make,

Something sad for Chopin's sake;

Then a waltz with gayer graces
Born of Liszt and pleasant places.

Next, to sway my dreaming soul,
Play a Schubert barcarole;
And, to wake me from the trance,
Just a tricksy Spanish dance.

Now a fugue of Bach's, a song
Weaving thoughts of right and wrong;
And a thing of airy tone.
That belongs to Mendelssohn.

A sonata-strain whose grief
Gave Beethoven's heart relief;
Last a melody divine

From the soul of Rubinstein.

Playing thus, the warp of life,
Dark of hue and sorrow-rife,
Shall be gladdened fold on fold
With a woof of sunny gold,
Woven from your melodies,
Little conjurer of keys.

Richard Burton.

THE KEYBOARD

Five and thirty black slaves,
Half a hundred white,
All their duty but to sing

For their Queen's delight,
Now with throats of thunder,
Now with dulcet lips,
While she rules them royally
With her finger-tips!

When she quits her palace
All the slaves are dumb
Dumb with dolor till the Queen
Back to Court is come:

Dumb the throats of thunder.
Dumb the dulcet lips,
Lacking all the sovereignty
Of her finger-tips!

Dusky slaves and pallid,

Ebon slaves and white,

When the Queen was on her throne How you sang to-night!

Ah, the throats of thunder!

Ah, the dulcet lips!

« PreviousContinue »