 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
266
MUSIC AMALGAMATED.
There's music in the hurricane,
And in the catgut's scrubbing;
Where slayers thunder o'er the slain,
Where democrats are drubbing;
There 's music in the boiler's hiss,
When steamers race for glory,
And in the nigger's glorious kiss,
With tyrant blood all gory.
And in the catgut's scrubbing;
Where slayers thunder o'er the slain,
Where democrats are drubbing;
There 's music in the boiler's hiss,
When steamers race for glory,
And in the nigger's glorious kiss,
With tyrant blood all gory.
There 's music in the midnight wreck,
'Tween tempests, rocks and billows,
When death is master of the deck,
And reefs are dead men's pillows;
There 's music in the windstirr'd grass,
In the whispering leaves of spring,
In martial drum, and braying ass,
And pugilistic ring.
'Tween tempests, rocks and billows,
When death is master of the deck,
And reefs are dead men's pillows;
There 's music in the windstirr'd grass,
In the whispering leaves of spring,
In martial drum, and braying ass,
And pugilistic ring.
There 's music in the glimmering stream
'Mid woods, flowers, verdure flowing,
And in the poet's noontide dream,
Where phantom fame comes glowing;
There 's music to the fairy's ear
In shadows, dews, and bubbles,
And to old maidens, when they hear
The voice of wedlock's troubles.
'Mid woods, flowers, verdure flowing,
And in the poet's noontide dream,
Where phantom fame comes glowing;
There 's music to the fairy's ear
In shadows, dews, and bubbles,
And to old maidens, when they hear
The voice of wedlock's troubles.
There 's music in the deathbell, tolling
The fair and good to heaven,
On breezy hill and landscape rolling,
In twilight, morn or even;
There 's music in the streets where imps
Of colours all assemble,
And in the deep, where sprats and shrimps
Before behemoth tremble.
The fair and good to heaven,
On breezy hill and landscape rolling,
In twilight, morn or even;
267
Of colours all assemble,
And in the deep, where sprats and shrimps
Before behemoth tremble.
There 's music in the bullfrog's croak,
When sunset gilds the pond,
And in the spoil'd child's treble note,
Commanding mothers fond;
There 's music in the feline chorus
On dark piazzas mewed—
When arm'd moschetoes circle o'er us,—
And roistering rakes are slued.
When sunset gilds the pond,
And in the spoil'd child's treble note,
Commanding mothers fond;
There 's music in the feline chorus
On dark piazzas mewed—
When arm'd moschetoes circle o'er us,—
And roistering rakes are slued.
There 's music in the Mohawk whoop,
In the howl of pongoes praying,
In plundered camp and conquered coop,
And herds of jackals straying;
There 's music in the crashing skies,
And in the virgin's sigh,
In gallant hearts, and starlight eyes,—
When all are born or die.
In the howl of pongoes praying,
In plundered camp and conquered coop,
And herds of jackals straying;
There 's music in the crashing skies,
And in the virgin's sigh,
In gallant hearts, and starlight eyes,—
When all are born or die.
There 's music in the whispered word
Through hosts, war-waiting, sent;
Who, by old victories thrill'd and stirr'd,
Watch the sunkindled firmament!
There 's music in the click of gun,
Sword flash and bayonet gleam,
When battle heralds havoc's sun,
And purples every stream.
Through hosts, war-waiting, sent;
Who, by old victories thrill'd and stirr'd,
Watch the sunkindled firmament!
There 's music in the click of gun,
Sword flash and bayonet gleam,
When battle heralds havoc's sun,
And purples every stream.
There 's music in the bagpipe's drone,
In sweet M'Henry's verses;
In ballroom shuffle, dungeon groan,
And Conrad's tragic curses;
There 's music on the mount, or moor,
In ocean, sky or cave,
With queen or hoyden, a king or boor,
The autocrat or slave.
In sweet M'Henry's verses;
In ballroom shuffle, dungeon groan,
And Conrad's tragic curses;
There 's music on the mount, or moor,
In ocean, sky or cave,
With queen or hoyden, a king or boor,
The autocrat or slave.
268
Niagara thunders music down,
The earthquake thunders up;
Volcanoes shout o'er buried town,
The plague, o'er poison cup;
The tempest and the lightning sing—
Stars, meteors, flowers—earth, heaven—
Music to every human thing,
Save modern bards, is given!
The earthquake thunders up;
Volcanoes shout o'er buried town,
The plague, o'er poison cup;
The tempest and the lightning sing—
Stars, meteors, flowers—earth, heaven—
Music to every human thing,
Save modern bards, is given!
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |