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Not to the realm of breathed sounds alone

Belong all instruinents of reiody:

No less than 'Music's self hath Poesy Her instruments, perchance of finer tore. She hath her sonnet-trumpet for her own,

Her viols and her pipes of balladry, :

And silver flutes for love's sweet aiinistry In many a tender lyric softly blowr. List, how in, elearest harmony thay. sound, Cymbals arid drurns beating in battle-song, Harp-strains of holy pša!mody, up-steal

ing; And, heard through all with mighty voice profound

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Outpoured, a wave of sound sustained and

strong, The solemn epic's thunderous organ-pealing!

Robertson Trowbridge.



Sing, poets, as ye list, of fields, of flowers,
Of changing seasons with their brilliant round
Of keen delights, or themes still more pro-

found Where soul through sende - transmutes this

world of ours. There is a life intense beyond your powers Of utterance, which the ear alone has found In the aerial fields of rhythmic sound The inviciate pathways and air-woven bowers Built by entwining melodies and chords. Ah, could I find some correspondent sign Matching such wondrous art with fitting

words! But vain the task. Within his hallowed shrine Apollo veils his face. No muse records In human speech such mysteries divine.


Yet words though weak are all that poets own Wherewith their muse translates that kindred

muse Of Harmony, whose subtle forms and hues Float in the unlanguaged poesy of Tone. And so no true-souled artist stands alone; But all are brothers, though one hand may


A magic wand the others must refuse,
And painters need no sculptor's Parian stone.
If Art is long, yet is her province wide.
While all for truth and beauty live and dare,
One sacred temple covers all her sons.
Music and Poesy, stand side by side.
Through every member one bisod-current

runs: One aim, one work, one destiny they share.

Christopher P. Cranch.


If music and sweet poetry agree,
As they must needs, the sister and the brother,
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and
Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense;
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such,
As passing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound
That Phæbus' lute, the queen of music, makes;
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd,
Whenas himself to singing he betakes.


One god is god of both, as poets feign;
One knight loves both, and both in thee

William Shakespeare.


I see small difference 'Twixt one sound and its next. All seems

akin And run on the same feet, ever.

Peace! Thou want'st : One heavenly sense, and speak'si 'in igno

rance. Seest thou no differing shadows which divide The rose and poppy ? . 'Tis the same with But's hinged with different music.

sounds. There's not a minute in the round of time

In that

small space

Between the thought and its swift utterance – Ere silence buds to sound - the angels, listen

ing, Hear infinite varieties of song! And they who turn the lightning-rapid spheres Have flown an evening's journey.

Bryan W. Procter (Barry Cornwall).


Music, I yield to thee;

As swimmer to the sea
I give my spirit to the flood of song:

Bear me upon thy breast

In rapture and at rest, Bathe me in pure delight and make me strong;

From strife and struggle bring release, And draw the waves of passion into tides of


Remember'd songs, most dear,
In living songs I hear,

"From “ Music and Other Poems,” copyright, 1904, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

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