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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
Now calm, majestic is her tread,
(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.
Then whirling in ecstatic rings,
And beats, 'mid filmy gauze's sheen,
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.
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?
Richard Watson Gilder.
THE LUTE - PLAYER OF CASA
No others sing as you have sung
Oh, Well Beloved of me!
As joyous as the sea,
The falling sunbeams fling,
Oh, Lute-player, my Lute-player,