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(Finale: Allegro con brio)

Heaven is emptied of angels; the jubilant

legions, Wild with tumultuous rapture and breath

less 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.



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.


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 Alings,

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

Henry Morgan Stone.


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, promise

filled, 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.


(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!

Nathan Haskell Dole.


I What is her playing like? I ask -- while dreaming here under her music's '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



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


Richard Watson Gilder.



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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