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Wide plains, and rivers flowing among

flowers, That bathe the castle basement as they pass.

In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,

A lady looks forth from her window high; It may be that I knew and found her fair, In some forgotten life, long time gone by.

Andrew Lang


(À Anton Dvorák)

My body answers you, my blood
Leaps at your maddening, piercing call.
The fierce notes startle, and the veil
Of this dull present seems to fall.

My soul responds to that long cry;
It wants its country, Hungary!

Not mine by birth. Yet have I not
Some strain of that old Magyar race?
Else why the secret stir of sense
At sight of swarthy Tzigane face,

"From “ Songs About Life, Love, and Death,” copyright, 1892, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

That warns me: “Lo, thy kinsmen nigh.” All's dear that tastes of Hungary.

Once more, O let me hear once more
The passion and barbaric rage!
Let me forget my exile here
In this mild land, in this mild age;

Once more that unrestrained wild cry
That takes me to my Hungary !

They listen with approving smile,
But I, O God, I want my home!
I want the Tzigane tongue, the dance,
The nights in tents, the days to roam.

O music, O fierce life and free,
God made my soul for Hungary!

Anne Reeve Aldrich.



O friend, whom glad or grave we seek,

Heav'n-holding shrine !
I ope thee, touch thee, hear thee speak,

And peace is mine.
No fairy casket full of bliss,

Out-values thee:

Love only, waken'd with a kiss,

More sweet may be.

To thee, when our full hearts o'erflow

In griefs or joys,
Unspeakable emotions owe

A fitting voice:
Mirth flies to thee, and Love's unrest,

And Memory dear.
And Sorrow, with his tighten'd breast,

Comes for a tear.

Oh since few joys of human mould

Thus wait us still,
Thrice bless'd be thine, thou gentle fold

Of peace at will.
No change, no sullenness, no cheat,

In thee we find;
Thy saddest voice is ever sweet,
Thine answer, kind.

Leigh Hunt.



Where did you learn that music? For it drew My dreaming back down autumn paths of Touched chords long silent and forgotten


tears, Recalled dim valleys where dead violets grew, Soothed me with twilight, as it were it knew The very secret of my heart and sighed For sympathy, and when at last it died It seemed as if my soul were singing too.

Sir Rennell Rodd.


I saw thee once, I see thee now;

Thy pure young face, thy noble mien, Thy truthful eyes, thy radiant brow;

All childlike, lovely, and serene;
Rapt in harmonious visions proud,
Scarce conscious of the audient crowd.

I heard thee when the instrument,

Possessed and quickened by thy soul,
Impassioned and intelligent,

Responded to thy full control
With all the treasures of its dower,
Its sweetest and its grandest power.

I saw and heard with such delight

As rarely charms our lower sphere:

Blind Handel would not miss his sight,

Thy beauty voiced thus in his ear;
Beethoven in that face would see
His glorious unheard harmony.

James Thomson.


Hark! 'Tis the golden trumpets of the dawn
Sounding the day!
Music, O Music fain!

From rosy reaches drawn,

And fall of silver rain,
Along the call how swift the sunrise streams!

Sound, sound again,
O magical refrain !

Peal on peal winding through the dewy air,
Peal on peal answering far off and fair,
Peal on peal bursting in victorious blare !

Sound, sound again,
With your delicious pain,

O wild sweet haunting strain,
Till the sky swell with hint of heavenly gleams
And the heart break with gladness loosed

from dreams!

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