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Lo! the movement too wondrous to name!
Agitation and rapture, the press
As of myriad waves that caress, And break into vanishing flame.
Ah! but the exquisite strain,
Sinking to pathos so sweet!
Is life then a lie and a cheat? Hark to the hopeless refrain !
Comes a shock like the voice of a soul
Lost to good, to all beauty and joy,
Led alone by the powers that destroy, And fighting with fiends for control.
Drops a chord like the grave's first clod.
Then again toss the waves of caprice,
Wild, delicate, sweet, with no peace, No health, and no yielding to God.
O Siren, that charmest the air
With this potent and passionate spell,
Sad as songs of the angels that fell, Thou leadest alone to despair!
What troubles the night? It grows chill Let the we
Fronts us the infinite sea And Nature is holy and still.
BEETHOVEN'S THIRD SYMPHONY
Passion and pain, the outcry of despair,
The pang of unattainable desire,
fair Clashing in swift soul-storm, through which
no prayer Uplifted stays the destined death-stroke
dire! Then through a mighty sorrowing as
through fire The soul burnt pure yearns forth into the
air Of the dear earth and, with the scent of
flowers And song of birds refreshed, takes heart
again, Made cheerier with this drinking of God's
wine, And turns with healing to the world of men; And high above a sweet strong angel towers, And Love makes life triumphant and divine.
BEETHOVEN'S FIFTH SYMPHONY
The mind's deep history here in tones is
wrought, The faith, the struggles of the aspiring soul, The confidence of youth, the chill control Of manhood's doubts by stern experience
taught; Alternate moods of bold and timorous thought, Sunshine and shadow - cloud and aureole ; The failing foothold as the shining goal Appears, and truth so long, so fondly sought Is blurred and dimmed. Again and yet again The exulting march resounds. We must win
now ! Slowly the doubts dissolve in clearer air. Bolder and grander the triumphal strain Ascends. Heaven's light is glancing on the
brow, And turns to boundless hope the old despair.
Christopher P. Cranch.
BEETHOVEN'S SIXTH SYMPHONY
Sounding above the warring of the years,
Comes the well-loved refrain,
Sweeter than when, beside the river's marge,
The cheerful waters flow,
Tender as sunlight upon childhood's head,
Comes the remembered power
The river ran with merry voice and low,
Talked with no idle voice,
Now through the tumult and the pride of life, Gentler, yet firmly soothing all its strife,