CHOPIN O soul most beautiful, and loving heart! O bright, wild bird, - now crooning on thy nest, Now soaring, sped by a divine unrest, How Nature speaks through thy perfected Art! Till from our eyes ecstatic tears do start, Till all our soul and senses are possest, And we must weep or smile at thy behest, And in thine ever changing mood take part, Like watchers on enchanted Mount, who see Fair visions pass at a magician's call,The fairer for their cloud of mystery,Who feel the necromancer's spell and fall Entranced beneath its pow'r, nor would be free, So deep the rapture and so sweet the thrall! Zitella Cocke. A MAZURKA OF CHOPIN Play on, play on, the low lights wane, For your fingers draw me away, away, And dreamland comes again. Are you 'ware of little stars in a pale sky! There is scarce the breath of a midnight sigh, Through the sway of aspens sleeping, And a ripple frets the rushes in the rill: Are you 'ware of little feet upon the grass, Tripping, rushing, Hardly brushing Any feather of the frailest as they pass, Of a twinkle of infinite tiny feet, And the kissing of tiny kisses? Of the lids of the sleeping daisies Are bound on the streaming hair;- Round and round and away again! They are dancing to the ripple they are moving, Keeping time to the glinting of the star; There's a glowworm for the lantern of their loving, And wedding-bells are ringing where the heather-flowers are. Can you hear their little voices? You would hear If it were not for the ripple on the stream: Still, for a moment, now you hear, Marvellous sweetly, clear and near, Under that silver beam, Songs of a wonder-world, my dear, World of a wonder-dream. Sir Rennell Rodd. HANDEL'S LARGO When the great organs, answering each to each, Joined with the violin's celestial speech, Then did it seem that all the heavenly host Gave praise to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost: We saw the archangels through the ether winging; We heard their souls go forth in solemn sing ing; "Praise, praise to God," they sang, "through endless days, Praise to the Eternal One, and nought but praise;" And as they sang the spirits of the dying Were upward borne from lips that ceased their sighing; And dying was not death, but deeper living — Living, and prayer, and praising and thanksgiving! Richard Watson Gilder. CHOPIN I A dream of interlinking hands, of feet Of the entangling waltz. Bright eyebeams meet, Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof. Warm perfumes rise; the soft unflickering glow Of branching lights sets off the changeful charms Of glancing gems, rich stuffs, the dazzling snow Of necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms. The troubled sea's disconsolate, deep voice. II Who shall proclaim the golden fable false Revived the exalted face we know so well, |