« PreviousContinue »
Sounds for scattered rills to flow to; Music for the flowers to blow to.
SONGS WITHOUT WORDS
I cannot sing the old songs,
Though well I know the tune, Familiar as a cradle-song
With sleep-compelling croon; Yet though I'm filled with music
As choirs of summer birds, "I cannot sing the old songs
I do not know the words.
I start on “Hail Columbia,"
And get to "heav'n-born band," And there I strike an upward grade
With neither steam nor sand;
Right in my wildest screaming,
To voiceless wreck at "streaming.”
So, when I sing the old songs,
Don't murmur or complain
If "Ti, diddy ah da, tum dum,"
Should fill the sweetest strain.
And the “ trilla-la yeep da” birds,
Robert J. Burdette.
“Ormusd and Ahriman")
Had I, instead of unsonorous words,
The skill that moves in rapturous melodies, And modulations of entrancing chords
Through mystic mazes of all harmonies The bounding pulses of an overture Whose grand orchestral movement might
allure The listener's soul through chaos and through
night, And seeming dissonance to concord and to
light I might allow some harsh Titanic strains
To wrestle with Apollo and with Jove;
And let the war-cries on barbaric plains
Amid the wrecks in wild confusion hurled, Move with impartial rhythm and cosmic
rhyme Along the eternal order of the world. Then would I bid my lyric band express In music the old earth's long toil and stress : How the dumb iron centuries have foretold The coming of the future age of gold: How, ere the morning stars together sang, Divine completeness out of chaos sprang Through shapeless germs of lower forms that
climb By slow vast æons of a dateless time: Till, through the impulse of the primal plan, They reach their flowering in the soul of man.
Christopher P. Cranch.
(From “ The Festival of Peace") Now shall the organ be roused to its utmost
passion of power ; All the winds of the sky shall grant it their
opulent dower! Other instruments, too, shall join in the sym
phony's maze: Flutes with melodious warble learned amid
bird-haunted ways; Sylvan clarinets, the hautboy beloved of the
swain; Passionate violins with hearts keyed to joy
and to pain; Soulful violas with voices for pathos and
yearning desire; Cellos with generous thoughts as of noble
young men that aspire; Horns whose mellow, deep call sets the hunts
man's blood all afire; Trumpets that ring for strife and animate
languishing hearts; Drums and cymbals and harps — all fill their eloquent parts.
Nathan Haskell Dole.
FROM "SONG OF MYSELF”
I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's
heart's complaint,) I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in
through my ears, It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly
I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera,
A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills
me, The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and
filling me full.
I hear the train'd soprano (what work with
hers is this?) The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus
flies, It wrenches such ardors from me I did not
know I possess'd them, It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are
lick'd by the indolent waves, I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my