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(Finale: Allegro con brio)

Heaven is emptied of angels; the jubilant legions,

Wild with tumultuous rapture and breathless despair,

Whirling and swirling, encircle with song and with laughter.

Strong with the infinite strength to the infinite regions,

Rises the Crucified, swift on the tides of the air,

Drawing the worshipping ages in ecstasy

after.

Lyman W. Allen.

A SYMPHONY

(Allegretto)

Sweet melody with rippling hair
And mantle curving on the air,
In faultless mazes winds around
Through all the free extent of sound.

(Andante Maestoso)

Now calm, majestic is her tread,
With stately pose and lofty head;
A star upon her forehead burns,
As goddess-like she moves and turns.

(Vivace non troppo)

Then quick with supple waist she trips Adown the lawn with hands on hips, And swaying head and laughing eye, A simple witch-maid dancing by.

(Adagio)

Now slow and sad her measured pace, With drooping head and tearful face. Her sable garments sweep the sands, Bereaved, a mourning queen she stands.

(Allegro Vivacissimo)

Then whirling in ecstatic rings,
Her tangled tresses free she flings,

And beats, 'mid filmy gauze's sheen,
Her ribbon-streaming tamborine.

Henry Morgan Stone.

THE SYMPHONY

What dreams and longings are within me stirred?

All that a ripened life can grasp and hold, With those suggestive whispers still untold, Mingled and blended with compelling word.

A theme of youth, - rich, mellow, promisefilled,

Which modulates, perplexed with varied scene Till the last motive stands full-robed, serene. It satisfies and life's unrest is stilled.

With dreams fulfilled, and soul suffused with peace,

Andante wraps the sense in subtle mist. Enfold me, luring phantom, close and long –

But let the last slow cadence bring release.
Thy sweet delirium I would fain resist,
And dance, clear-visioned, to a joyous song.

Helen Philbrook Patten.

INTERLUDE

(Allegretto)

Now swells a martial symphony,
Wherein the speechless ecstasy
Of genius wrought to whitest heat
Finds its expression so complete

That blended wood and brass and strings
And the great organ's cadencings

Lift men and bear them far away,

As in the old, miraculous day
King Solomon's magic carpet bore

From town to town, from shore to shore,
From Palestine to Turkestan,

From Ispahan to Candahar,

Nay, even to the evening star,

Whoever knew its talisman!

[blocks in formation]

'Tis like the leaves of the dark passion-flower Which grows on a strong vine whose roots, oh deep they sink,

Deep in the ground, that flower's pure life to

drink.

II

What is her playing like?

'Tis like a bird

Who, singing in a wild wood, never knows That its lone melody is heard

By wandering mortal, who forgets his heavy

woes.

Richard Watson Gilder.

THE LUTE - PLAYER OF CASA
BLANCA

No others sing as you have sung

Oh, Well Beloved of me!

So glad you are, so lithe and young,
As joyous as the sea,

That dances in the golden rain
The falling sunbeams fling, -
Ah, stoop and kiss me once again
Then take your lute and sing.
Oh, Lute-player, my Lute-player,
Take up your lute and sing!

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