My soul went up the blue-the sweetest pain, For an immortal moment I was free O' the flesh, and leaped in spirit and was strong With beauty, shaken by magic of that song. Richard Burton. THE VIOLIN Before the listening world behold him stand; The warm air trembles with his passionate play; Their cheers shower round him like the ocean spray Round one who waits upon the stormy strand. Their smiles, sighs, tears, all are at his command; And now they hear the trump of judgment day, And now one silver note to heaven doth stray And fluttering fall upon the golden sand. But like the murmur of the distant sea Their loud applause, and far-off, faint, and weak Sounds his own music to him, wild and Far from the soul of music that doth speak Richard Watson Gilder. A VIOLINIST The lark above our heads doth know Ah! soaring soul! faint not nor tire! SCHUMANN'S SONATA IN A MINOR (Mit Leidenschaftlichem Ausdruck) The quiet room, the flowers, the perfumed calm, The slender crystal vase, where all aflame The scarlet poppies stand erect and tall, Color that burns as if no frost could tame, The shaded lamplight glowing over all, The summer night a dream of warmth and balm. Out breaks at once the golden melody, "With passionate expression!" Ah, from whence Comes the enchantment of this potent spell, This charm that takes us captive, soul and sense? The sacred power of music, who shall tell, Who find the secret of its mastery? Lo, in the keen vibration of the air Pierced by the sweetness of the violin, Shaken by thrilling chords and searching notes That flood the ivory keys, the flowers begin To tremble; 'tis as if some spirit floats And breathes upon their beauty unaware. The stately poppies, proud in stillness, stand In silken splendor of superb attire: Stricken with arrows of melodious sound, Their loosened petals fall like flakes of fire; With waves of music overwhelmed and drowned, Solemnly drop their flames on either hand. So the rich moment dies, and what is left? Only a memory sweet, to shut between Some poem's silent leaves, to find again, Perhaps, when winter blasts are howling keen, And summer's loveliness is spoiled and slain, And all the world of light and bloom bereft. But winter cannot rob the music so! Nor time nor fate its subtle power destroy To bring again the summer's dear caress, To wake the heart to youth's unreasoning joy, Sound, color, perfume, love, to warm and bless, And airs of balm from Paradise that blow. Celia Thaxter. THE EOLIAN HARP And that simplest lute Placed lengthways in the clasping casement, hark! How by the desultory breeze caressed, Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes ers, Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing! O the one life within us and abroad, |