BEETHOVEN'S MUSIC TO FAUST O God of loving mercy, wilt Thou deign Be it not yet in vain that I have learned With purest gold and richest gems inwrought, While in my heart of hearts Thy fire burned. If it be wrong, my brother, to have grieved At thy distress, and sought to enter in To all that's hidden, then our art is sin, And we are all deceivers and deceived. My sister, I have lived thy life with thee From merry childhood to the thoughtful days Of womanhood with forward-looking gaze And suffered with thee in thine agony. And paid the utmost farthing to atone For all thou didst, and found at last release. From this world's mystery in perfect peace. — Fetch me my book and leave me here alone. Henry Johnson. BEETHOVEN Most intellectual master of the art, Which, best of all, teaches the mind of man The universe in all its varied plan What strangely mingled thoughts thy strains impart ! Here the faint tenor thrills the inmost heart, There the rich bass the Reason's balance shows; Here breathes the softest sigh that Love e'er knows; There sudden fancies, seeming without chart, Float into wildest breezy interludes; The part is all forgot - hopes sweetly breathe, And our whole being glows - when lo! beneath The flowery brink, Despair's deep sob concludes ! Startled, we try to free us from the chain Notes of high triumph swell, and we are thine again! Margaret Fuller Ossoli. BEETHOVEN O sovereign Master! stern and splendid power, That calmly dost both time and death defy; Lofty and lone as mountain-peaks that tower, Leading our thoughts up to the eternal sky: Keeper of some divine, mysterious key, Raising us far above all human care, Unlocking awful gates of harmony To let heaven's light in on the world's despair; Smiter of solemn chords that still command God lifts our saddened foreheads from the dust, The everlasting God, in whom we trust! Celia Thaxter. A MEMORY OF RUBINSTEIN He of the ocean is, its thunderous waves Echo his music; while far down the shore Mad laughter hurries a white, blowing spume. I hear again in memory that wild storm; The winds of heaven go rushing round the world, And broods above the rage one sphinx-like face. Richard Watson Gilder. MOZART As through the leafy close the crystal shine screen; And well we call thy matchless strains divine! Who lists shall live in Golden Age once more, Shall catch the voice of sweet Arcadian lutes, Behold, as erst, glad nymphs dance on the shore, To tabor's sound and dithyrambic flutes, |