What buoyant spirit breathes the breath of morn And earth's delight, Trumpets, O trumpets blest! Great voices, born Of consecrated gest, Across the ramparts ring and faint and fail! O echoes, pressed On some ethereal quest, Touch all the joyance to a tearful dew, With melancholy gathering o'er the blueInfinite hope, infinite sorrow, too! And, heard, or guessed, Sweet, sweet, O sweet and best, O horns of heaven, give your hero hail, THE PIANO Low brooding cadences that dream and cry, Life's stress and passion echoing straight and clear; Wild flights of notes that clamor and beat high Into the storm and battle, or drop sheer; Strange majesties of sound beyond all words Ringing on clouds and thunderous heights sublime; Sad detonance of golden tones and chords TO MY LYRE1 Hast thou upon the idle branches hung, Nor as the sweet wind through the rose-leaves sung Uttered one dulcet lay? Come down, and by my rival touch be rung As tenderly as they! Did not Alcæus with blood-streaming hand Range o'er his trembling wire, An imitation of Horace, Carm. 1. 32. Stealing forth sounds more eloquently bland Than softness could desire, As if with myrtle bough sweet Venus fanned His rapt Lesboan lyre? And shall not I, that never will imbrue My battle-field a bed of violets blue, George Darley. OLD SONGS There is many a simple song one hears, Perchance 'twas heard in the days of youth, When breath was buoyant and words were truth; When joys were peddled at Life's gay booth. Or maybe it sounded along a lane Where She walked with you- and now again You catch Love's cadence, Love's old sweet pain. Or else it stole through a room where lay It rises out of the Long Ago, And that is the reason it shakes you so There is many a simple song that brings From deeps of living, on viewless wings, The tender magic of bygone things. Richard Burton. A LOST CHORD Seated one day at the organ, I was weary and ill at ease, I know not what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming then, But I struck one chord of music Like the sound of a great Amen. It flooded the crimson twilight, It quieted pain and sorrow, It linked all perplexed meanings I have sought, but I seek it vainly, Which came from the soul of the organ And entered into mine. It may be that Death's bright angel |