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And wished her thither, till she, answering,

rose, Loth to leave these her friends, yet fain for

those, More distant but more dear, whose lips were

placed Warm on the Bridegroom's, passionately

chaste. I know not; this I know: mine ear shall keep Those great soprano sounds until I sleep; And this I know: her brow, her hair, her

eye, Shall be to me a glory till I die!

Frederic Lawrence Knowles.


The keen stars were twinkling, And the fair moon was rising among them,

Dear Jane. The guitar was tinkling, But the notes were not sweet till you sung them


As the moon's soft splendor
O’er the faint cold starlight of heaven

Is thrown, So your voice most tender To the strings without soul had then given

Its own.

The stars will awaken,
Though the moon sleep a full hour later

No leaf will be shaken
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter


Though the sound overpowers,
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing

A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.


The curtain on the grouping dancers falls, The heaven of color has vanished from our

eyes; Stirred in our seats we wait with vague surWhat haply comes that pleases or that palls. Touched on the stand the thrice-struck baton


calls, Once more I watch the unfolding curtain rise, I hear the exultant violins premise The well-known tune that thrills me and en

thralls. Then trembling in my joy I see you flash Before the footlights to the cymbals' clash, With laughing lips, swift feet, and brilliant

glance, You, fair as heaven and as a rainbow bright, You, queen of song and empress of the dance, Flower of mine eyes, my love, my heart's delight!

Theodore Wratislaw.


You shall play me, and you please,
Little conjurer of keys,
From the masters, music-blessed,
Playing what I love the best.

Something sweet of Schumann's make,
Something sad for Chopin's sake;

Then a waltz with gayer graces
Born of Liszt and pleasant places.

Next, to sway my dreaming soul,
Play a Schubert barcarole;
And, to wake me from the trance,
Just a tricksy Spanish dance.

Now a fugue of Bach's, a song
Weaving thoughts of right and wrong;
And a thing of airy tone
That belongs to Mendelssohn.

A sonata-strain whose grief
Gave Beethoven's heart relief;
Last a melody divine
From the soul of Rubinstein.

Playing thus, the warp of life,
Dark of hue and sorrow-rife,
Shall be gladdened fold on fold
With a woof of sunny gold,
Woven from your melodies,
Little conjurer of keys.

Richard Burton. THE KEYBOARD

Five and thirty black slaves,

Half a hundred white, All their duty but to sing

For their Queen's delight, Now with throats of thunder,

Now with dulcet lips, While she rules them royally

With her finger-tips !

When she quits her palace

All the slaves are dumb Dumb with dolor till the Queen

Back to Court is come: Dumb the throats of thunder.

Dumb the dulcet lips, Lacking all the sovereignty

Of her finger-tips!

Dusky slaves and pallid,

Ebon slaves and white, When the Queen was on her throne

How you sang to-night! Ah, the throats of thunder!

Ah, the dulcet lips !

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