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Hark! like a golden thread of sound aerial
A plaintive cadence from the organ steals: It trembles, rises, floats away ethereal!
The soul in silent prayer devoutly kneels.
Then comes a change: a crash of chords rolls
thundering And shakes the windows in their leaded
panes; It thrills the throng who listen breathless
wondering, To hear the splendor of the sequent strains.
From out the chaos of the weird prophetical
Emerges like the crystal light of life A fervid theme, spontaneous, poetical, That sings of strenuous victory won from
With deeper tones the same great theme
euphonious Ensues enmesht in woof of woven sounds,
Thus grows the fugue: a splendid web har
monious With a whole world of beauty in its bounds.
Nathan Haskell Dole.
Sublimest Master, thou, of harmony,
Now in exhaustless fulness dost thou know The joy divine thy raptured strains foretold;
God's harmony thy prayer hath satisfied, His music on thy listening ear hath rolled; Accord unmarred, for which thy spirit
sighed, In its completeness, through the eternal years
Is thine; thy yearning soul its echo dim Didst catch amid thy mortal woes and fears,
An earnest of the blest, perpetual hymn, And legacy to us, which shall inspire, With something of thy pure, celestial fire.
Whom shall I purify? Whose soul is strong
To lift the burden of a hero's grief
And dare to be reborn to give relief To his immortal suffering in song?
Canst thou with me sustain that glory's light, Which bathes the young god's earthly,
human form? Canst thou undaunted gird thee for the
storm To buffet death itself and sink in night?
Prove thou thy mind and heart lest impotent Thou learn her boundless sorrow and be
dumb, So, false to her whose hate could over
come The sister's love she bore nor would relent
Till on her ear that elemental roar
Too much! Not yet, great shadows of the
brain, Not yet! Be all your fireless passions mute,
Until, O music's poet, resolute Thou bid them rise to love and hate again.
If to the intellect and passions strong
Beethoven speak, with such resistless power,
Making us share the full creative hour, When his wand fixed wild Fancy's mystic
throng, Oh, Nature's finest lyre! to thee belong
The deepest, softest tones of tenderness,
Whose purity the listening angels bless, With silvery clearness of seraphic song. Sad are those chords, oh heavenward striving
soul! And love, which never found its home on
earth, Pensively vibrates, even in thy mirth, And gentle laws thy lightest notes control; Yet dear that sadness! spheral concords felt Purify most those hearts which most they melt.
Margaret Fuller Ossoli.