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Sounds for scattered rills to flow to; Music for the flowers to blow to.

Leigh Hunt.


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;
“Star Spangled Banner ” downs me

Right in my wildest screaming,
I start all right, but dumbly come

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.
I love “ Tolly um dum di do,"

And the “ trilla-la yeep da” birds,
But “I cannot sing the old songs,”
I do not know the words.

Robert J. Burdette.

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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
Clash through the chords of wisdom and of

For still the harmonies should sing and soar
Above the discord and the battle's roar;
E'en as the evolving art and course of time,

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.


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

and breast.

I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera,
Ah, this indeed is music - this suits me.

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


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