Part 15
You do your work with careful, loving touch,-- An artist to the very core of you,-- You know the magic spell of "not-too-much": We read,--and wish that there was more of you.
And more there is: for while we love your books Because their subtle skill is part of you; We love _you_ better, for our friendship looks Behind them to the human heart of you.
II
MEMORIAL SONNET, 1908
This is the house where little Aldrich read The early pages of Life's wonder-book With boyish pleasure: in this ingle-nook He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy shed Bright colour on the pictures blue and red: Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and took His happy way, with searching, dreamful look Among the deeper things more simply said.
Then, came his turn to write: and still the flame Of Fancy played through all the tales he told, And still he won the laurelled poet's fame With simple words wrought into rhymes of gold. Look, here's the face to which this house is frame,-- A man too wise to let his heart grow old!
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
(Read at His Funeral, January 21, 1908)
Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch Of beauty or of truth, Rich in the thoughtfulness of age, The hopefulness of youth, The courage of the gentle heart, The wisdom of the pure, The strength of finely tempered souls To labour and endure!
The blue of springtime in your eyes Was never quenched by pain; And winter brought your head the crown Of snow without a stain. The poet's mind, the prince's heart, You kept until the end, Nor ever faltered in your work, Nor ever failed a friend.
You followed, through the quest of life, The light that shines above The tumult and the toil of men, And shows us what to love. Right loyal to the best you knew, Reality or dream, You ran the race, you fought the fight, A follower of the Gleam.
We lay upon your folded hands The wreath of asphodel; We speak above your peaceful face The tender word _Farewell!_ For well you fare, in God's good care, Somewhere within the blue, And know, to-day, your dearest dreams Are true,--and true,--and true!
TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
ON HIS "BOOK OF JOYOUS CHILDREN"
Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers; Joyous children delight to play there; Weary men find rest in its bowers, Watching the lingering light of day there.
Old-time tunes and young love-laughter Ripple and run among the roses; Memory's echoes, murmuring after, Fill the dusk when the long day closes.
Simple songs with a cadence olden-- These you learned in the Forest of Arden: Friendly flowers with hearts all golden-- These you borrowed from Eden's garden.
This is the reason why all men love you; Truth to life is the finest art: Other poets may soar above you-- You keep close to the human heart.
December, 1903.
RICHARD WATSON GILDER
IN MEMORIAM
Soul of a soldier in a poet's frame, Heart of a hero in a body frail; Thine was the courage clear that did not quail Before the giant champions of shame Who wrought dishonour to the city's name; And thine the vision of the Holy Grail Of Love, revealed through Music's lucid veil, Filling thy life with heavenly song and flame.
Pure was the light that lit thy glowing eye, And strong the faith that held thy simple creed. Ah, poet, patriot, friend, to serve our need Thou leavest two great gifts that will not die: Above the city's noise, thy lyric cry,-- Amid the city's strife, thy noble deed.
November, 1909.
THE VALLEY OF VAIN VERSES
The grief that is but feigning, And weeps melodious tears Of delicate complaining From self-indulgent years; The mirth that is but madness, And has no inward gladness Beneath its laughter straining, To capture thoughtless ears;
The love that is but passion Of amber-scented lust; The doubt that is but fashion; The faith that has no trust; These Thamyris disperses, In the Valley of Vain Verses Below the Mount Parnassian,-- And they crumble into dust.
MUSIC
MUSIC
I
PRELUDE
1
Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night When, pierced with pain and bitter-sweet delight, She knew her Love and saw her Lord depart, Then breathed her wonder and her woe forlorn Into a single cry, and thou wast born! Thou flower of rapture and thou fruit of grief; Invisible enchantress of the heart; Mistress of charms that bring relief To sorrow, and to joy impart A heavenly tone that keeps it undefined,-- Thou art the child Of Amor, and by right divine A throne of love is thine, Thou flower-folded, golden-girdled, star-crowned Queen, Whose bridal beauty mortal eyes have never seen!
2
Thou art the Angel of the pool that sleeps, While peace and joy lie hidden in its deeps, Waiting thy touch to make the waters roll In healing murmurs round the weary soul. Ah, when wilt thou draw near, Thou messenger of mercy robed in song? My lonely heart has listened for thee long; And now I seem to hear Across the crowded market-place of life, Thy measured foot-fall, ringing light and clear Above unmeaning noises and unruly strife. In quiet cadence, sweet and slow, Serenely pacing to and fro, Thy far-off steps are magical and dear,-- Ah, turn this way, come close and speak to me! From this dull bed of languor set my spirit free, And bid me rise, and let me walk awhile with thee.
II
INVOCATION
Where wilt thou lead me first? In what still region Of thy domain, Whose provinces are legion, Wilt thou restore me to myself again, And quench my heart's long thirst? I pray thee lay thy golden girdle down, And put away thy starry crown: For one dear restful hour Assume a state more mild. Clad only in thy blossom-broidered gown That breathes familiar scent of many a flower, Take the low path that leads through pastures green; And though thou art a Queen, Be Rosamund awhile, and in thy bower, By tranquil love and simple joy beguiled, Sing to my soul, as mother to her child.
III
PLAY SONG
O lead me by the hand, And let my heart have rest, And bring me back to childhood land, To find again the long-lost band Of playmates blithe and blest.
Some quaint, old-fashioned air, That all the children knew, Shall run before us everywhere, Like a little maid with flying hair, To guide the merry crew.
Along the garden ways We chase the light-foot tune, And in and out the flowery maze, With eager haste and fond delays, In pleasant paths of June.
For us the fields are new, For us the woods are rife With fairy secrets, deep and true, And heaven is but a tent of blue Above the game of life.
The world is far away: The fever and the fret, And all that makes the heart grow gray, Is out of sight and far away, Dear Music, while I hear thee play That olden, golden roundelay, "Remember and forget!"
IV
SLEEP SONG
Forget, forget! The tide of life is turning; The waves of light ebb slowly down the west: Along the edge of dark some stars are burning To guide thy spirit safely to an isle of rest. A little rocking on the tranquil deep Of song, to soothe thy yearning, A little slumber and a little sleep, And so, forget, forget!
Forget, forget,-- The day was long in pleasure; Its echoes die away across the hill; Now let thy heart beat time to their slow measure, That swells, and sinks, and faints, and falls, till all is still. Then, like a weary child that loves to keep Locked in its arms some treasure, Thy soul in calm content shall fall asleep, And so forget, forget.
Forget, forget,-- And if thou hast been weeping, Let go the thoughts that bind thee to thy grief: Lie still, and watch the singing angels, reaping The golden harvest of thy sorrow, sheaf by sheaf; Or count thy joys like flocks of snow-white sheep That one by one come creeping Into the quiet fold, until thou sleep, And so forget, forget!
Forget, forget,-- Thou art a child and knowest So little of thy life! But music tells The secret of the world through which thou goest To work with morning song, to rest with evening bells: Life is in tune with harmony so deep That when the notes are lowest Thou still canst lay thee down in peace and sleep, For God will not forget.
V
HUNTING SONG
Out of the garden of playtime, out of the bower of rest, Fain would I follow at daytime, music that calls to a quest. Hark, how the galloping measure Quickens the pulses of pleasure; Gaily saluting the morn With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, Echoing up from the valley, Over the mountain side,-- Rally, you hunters, rally, Rally, and ride!
Drink of the magical potion music has mixed with her wine, Full of the madness of motion, joyful, exultant, divine! Leave all your troubles behind you, Ride where they never can find you, Into the gladness of morn, With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, Swiftly o'er hillock and hollow, Sweeping along with the wind,-- Follow, you hunters, follow, Follow and find!
What will you reach with your riding? What is the charm of the chase? Just the delight and the striding swing of the jubilant pace. Danger is sweet when you front her,-- In at the death, every hunter! Now on the breeze the mort is borne In the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, Winding merrily, over and over,-- Come, come, come! Home again, Ranger! home again, Rover! Turn again, home!
VI
DANCE-MUSIC
1
Now let the sleep-tune blend with the play-tune, Weaving the mystical spell of the dance; Lighten the deep tune, soften the gay tune, Mingle a tempo that turns in a trance. Half of it sighing, half of it smiling, Smoothly it swings, with a triplicate beat; Calling, replying, yearning, beguiling, Wooing the heart and bewitching the feet. Every drop of blood Rises with the flood, Rocking on the waves of the strain; Youth and beauty glide Turning with the tide-- Music making one out of twain, Bearing them away, and away, and away, Like a tone and its terce-- Till the chord dissolves, and the dancers stay, And reverse.
Violins leading, take up the measure, Turn with the tune again,--clarinets clear Answer their pleading,--harps full of pleasure Sprinkle their silver like light on the mere. Semiquaver notes, Merry little motes, Tangled in the haze Of the lamp's golden rays, Quiver everywhere In the air, Like a spray,-- Till the fuller stream of the might of the tune, Gliding like a dream in the light of the moon, Bears them all away, and away, and away, Floating in the trance of the dance.
2
Then begins a measure stately, Languid, slow, serene; All the dancers move sedately, Stepping leisurely and straitly, With a courtly mien; Crossing hands and changing places, Bowing low between, While the minuet inlaces Waving arms and woven paces,-- Glittering damaskeen. Where is she whose form is folden In its royal sheen? From our longing eyes withholden By her mystic girdle golden, Beauty sought but never seen, Music walks the maze, a queen.
VII
WAR-MUSIC
Break off! Dance no more! Danger is at the door. Music is in arms. To signal war's alarms.
Hark, a sudden trumpet calling Over the hill! Why are you calling, trumpet, calling? What is your will?
Men, men, men! Men who are ready to fight For their country's life, and the right Of a liberty-loving land to be Free, free, free! Free from a tyrant's chain, Free from dishonor's stain, Free to guard and maintain All that her fathers fought for, All that her sons have wrought for, Resolute, brave, and free!
Call again, trumpet, call again, Call up the men!
Do you hear the storm of cheers Mingled with the women's tears And the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching feet? Do you hear the throbbing drum As the hosts of battle come Keeping time, time, time to its beat? O Music give a song To make their spirit strong For the fury of the tempest they must meet.
The hoarse roar Of the monster guns; And the sharp bark Of the lesser guns; The whine of the shells, The rifles' clatter Where the bullets patter, The rattle, rattle, rattle Of the mitrailleuse in battle, And the yells Of the men who charge through hells Where the poison gas descends, And the bursting shrapnel rends Limb from limb In the dim Chaos and clamor of the strife Where no man thinks of his life But only of fighting through, Blindly fighting through, through!
'Tis done At last! The victory won, The dissonance of warfare past!
O Music mourn the dead Whose loyal blood was shed, And sound the taps for every hero slain; Then lead into the song That made their spirit strong, And tell the world they did not die in vain.
Thank God we can see, in the glory of morn, The invincible flag that our fathers defended; And our hearts can repeat what the heroes have sworn, That war shall not end till the war-lust is ended. Then the bloodthirsty sword shall no longer be lord Of the nations oppressed by the conqueror's horde, But the banners of Liberty proudly shall wave O'er the _world_ of the free and the lands of the brave.
May, 1916.
VIII
THE SYMPHONY
Music, they do thee wrong who say thine art Is only to enchant the sense. For every timid motion of the heart, And every passion too intense To bear the chain of the imperfect word, And every tremulous longing, stirred By spirit winds that come we know not whence And go we know not where, And every inarticulate prayer Beating about the depths of pain or bliss, Like some bewildered bird That seeks its nest but knows not where it is, And every dream that haunts, with dim delight, The drowsy hour between the day and night, The wakeful hour between the night and day,-- Imprisoned, waits for thee, Impatient, yearns for thee, The queen who comes to set the captive free! Thou lendest wings to grief to fly away, And wings to joy to reach a heavenly height; And every dumb desire that storms within the breast Thou leadest forth to sob or sing itself to rest.
All these are thine, and therefore love is thine. For love is joy and grief, And trembling doubt, and certain-sure belief, And fear, and hope, and longing unexpressed, In pain most human, and in rapture brief Almost divine. Love would possess, yet deepens when denied; And love would give, yet hungers to receive; Love like a prince his triumph would achieve; And like a miser in the dark his joys would hide. Love is most bold, He leads his dreams like armèd men in line; Yet when the siege is set, and he must speak, Calling the fortress to resign Its treasure, valiant love grows weak, And hardly dares his purpose to unfold. Less with his faltering lips than with his eyes He claims the longed-for prize: Love fain would tell it all, yet leaves the best untold. But thou shalt speak for love. Yea, thou shalt teach The mystery of measured tone, The Pentecostal speech That every listener heareth as his own. For on thy head the cloven tongues of fire,-- Diminished chords that quiver with desire, And major chords that glow with perfect peace,-- Have fallen from above; And thou canst give release In music to the burdened heart of love.
Sound with the 'cellos' pleading, passionate strain The yearning theme, and let the flute reply In placid melody, while violins complain, And sob, and sigh, With muted string; Then let the oboe half-reluctant sing Of bliss that trembles on the verge of pain, While 'cellos plead and plead again, With throbbing notes delayed, that would impart To every urgent tone the beating of the heart. So runs the andante, making plain The hopes and fears of love without a word. Then comes the adagio, with a yielding theme Through which the violas flow soft as in a dream, While horns and mild bassoons are heard In tender tune, that seems to float Like an enchanted boat Upon the downward-gliding stream, Toward the allegro's wide, bright sea Of dancing, glittering, blending tone, Where every instrument is sounding free, And harps like wedding-chimes are rung, and trumpets blown Around the barque of love That rides, with smiling skies above, A royal galley, many-oared, Into the happy harbour of the perfect chord.
IX
IRIS
Light to the eye and Music to the ear,-- These are the builders of the bridge that springs From earth's dim shore of half-remembered things To reach the heavenly sphere Where nothing silent is and nothing dark. So when I see the rainbow's arc Spanning the showery sky, far-off I hear Music, and every colour sings: And while the symphony builds up its round Full sweep of architectural harmony Above the tide of Time, far, far away I see A bow of colour in the bow of sound. Red as the dawn the trumpet rings; Blue as the sky, the choir of strings Darkens in double-bass to ocean's hue, Rises in violins to noon-tide's blue, With threads of quivering light shot through and through; Green as the mantle that the summer flings Around the world, the pastoral reeds in tune Embroider melodies of May and June. Purer than gold, Yea, thrice-refinèd gold, And richer than the treasures of the mine, Floods of the human voice divine Along the arch in choral song are rolled. So bends the bow complete: And radiant rapture flows Across the bridge, so full, so strong, so sweet, That the uplifted spirit hardly knows Whether the Music-Light that glows Within the arch of tones and colours seven, Is sunset-peace of earth or sunrise-joy of Heaven.
X
SEA AND SHORE
Music, I yield to thee As swimmer to the sea, I give my spirit to the flood of song! Bear me upon thy breast In rapture and at rest, Bathe me in pure delight and make me strong; From strife and struggle bring release, And draw the waves of passion into tides of peace.
Remembered songs most dear In living songs I hear, While blending voices gently swing and sway, In melodies of love, Whose mighty currents move With singing near and singing far away; Sweet in the glow of morning light, And sweeter still across the starlit gulf of night.
Music, in thee we float, And lose the lonely note Of self in thy celestial-ordered strain, Until at last we find The life to love resigned In harmony of joy restored again; And songs that cheered our mortal days Break on the shore of light in endless hymns of praise.
December, 1901--May, 1903--May, 1916.
MASTER OF MUSIC
(In memory of Theodore Thomas, 1905)
Glory architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard, Living forever in temple and picture and statue and song,-- Look how the world with the lights that they lit is illumined and starred; Brief was the flame of their life, but the lamps of their art burn long!
Where is the Master of Music, and how has he vanished away? Where is the work that he wrought with his wonderful art in the air? Gone,--it is gone like the glow on the cloud at the close of the day! The Master has finished his work and the glory of music is--where?
Once, at the wave of his wand, all the billows of musical sound Followed his will, as the sea was ruled by the prophet of old: Now that his hand is relaxed, and his rod has dropped to the ground, Silent and dark are the shores where the marvellous harmonies rolled!
Nay, but not silent the hearts that were filled by that life-giving sea; Deeper and purer forever the tides of their being will roll, Grateful and joyful, O Master, because they have listened to thee; The glory of music endures in the depths of the human soul.
THE PIPES O' PAN
Great Nature had a million words, In tongues of trees and songs of birds, But none to breathe the heart of man, Till Music filled the pipes o' Pan.
1909.
TO A YOUNG GIRL SINGING
Oh, what do you know of the song, my dear, And how have you made it your own? You have caught the turn of the melody clear, And you give it again with a golden tone, Till the wonder-word and the wedded note Are flowing out of your beautiful throat With a liquid charm for every ear: And they talk of your art,--but for you alone The song is a thing, unheard, unknown; You only have learned it by rote.
But when you have lived for awhile, my dear, I think you will learn it anew! For a joy will come, or a grief, or a fear, That will alter the look of the world for you; And the lyric you learned as a bit of art, Will wake to life as a wonderful part Of the love you feel so deep and true; And the thrill of a laugh or the throb of a tear, Will come with your song to all who hear; For then you will know it by heart.
April, 1911.
THE OLD FLUTE
The time will come when I no more can play This polished flute: the stops will not obey My gnarled fingers; and the air it weaves In modulations, like a vine with leaves Climbing around the tower of song, will die In rustling autumn rhythms, confused and dry. My shortened breath no more will freely fill This magic reed with melody at will; My stiffened lips will try and try in vain To wake the liquid, leaping, dancing strain; The heavy notes will falter, wheeze, and faint, Or mock my ear with shrillness of complaint.
Then let me hang this faithful friend of mine Upon the trunk of some old, sacred pine, And sit beneath the green protecting boughs To hear the viewless wind, that sings and soughs Above me, play its wild, aerial lute, And draw a ghost of music from my flute!
So will I thank the gods; and most of all The Delian Apollo, whom men call The mighty master of immortal sound,-- Lord of the billows in their chanting round, Lord of the winds that fill the wood with sighs, Lord of the echoes and their sweet replies, Lord of the little people of the air That sprinkle drops of music everywhere, Lord of the sea of melody that laves The universe with never silent waves,-- Him will I thank that this brief breath of mine Has caught one cadence of the song divine; And these frail fingers learned to rise and fall In time with that great tune which throbs thro' all; And these poor lips have lent a lilt of joy To songless men whom weary tasks employ! My life has had its music, and my heart In harmony has borne a little part, And now I come with quiet, grateful breast To Death's dim hall of silence and of rest.
Freely rendered from the French of Auguste Angellier, 1911.
THE FIRST BIRD O' SPRING
TO OLIVE WHEELER
Winter on Mount Shasta, April down below; Golden hours of glowing sun, Sudden showers of snow! Under leafless thickets Early wild-flowers cling; But, oh, my dear, I'm fain to hear The first bird o' Spring!