Music and Other Poems | Page 2

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!
VII

DANCE-MUSIC
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.
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.
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 armed 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
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