 | Sounds and Sweet Airs |  |
53
III. The Nocturnes.
The music wakes and, like a potent rime,
Charms me away to a dim land that lies
Beyond the churlish insults of grey Time,
And in my ear slow rippling melodies
Whisper their legends of that golden clime.
Charms me away to a dim land that lies
Beyond the churlish insults of grey Time,
And in my ear slow rippling melodies
Whisper their legends of that golden clime.
There Love's glad child, Romance, pines not away,
A frail flower withering in the winds of morn,
And many a dream entombed in earth's cold clay
In that enchanted land awakes re-born.
The hours are kind and Beauty grows not grey.
A frail flower withering in the winds of morn,
And many a dream entombed in earth's cold clay
In that enchanted land awakes re-born.
The hours are kind and Beauty grows not grey.
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There the wild dæmons that in us rave and sigh—
Pride, Love, Grief, Joy, Despair, and Melancholy,
Robed for their parts in Life's high tragedy,
Like stately knights and damsels moving slowly
To music, pass in sumptuous pageant by.
Pride, Love, Grief, Joy, Despair, and Melancholy,
Robed for their parts in Life's high tragedy,
Like stately knights and damsels moving slowly
To music, pass in sumptuous pageant by.
Now, in a land of lakes or broad lagunes,
By glimmering waters lovers meet and part
In moonlit groves, or float where sunset swoons
O'er cities like some Venice of the heart,
Where all the air is full of languorous tunes.
By glimmering waters lovers meet and part
In moonlit groves, or float where sunset swoons
O'er cities like some Venice of the heart,
Where all the air is full of languorous tunes.
And now, perchance, a daintier theme suggests
An idyll where, with a sad smile, Watteau,
'Mong gallants trim and ladies with white breasts,
Paints Love, in some fantastic Fontainebleau,
Bandying with Pleasure melancholy jests.
An idyll where, with a sad smile, Watteau,
'Mong gallants trim and ladies with white breasts,
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Bandying with Pleasure melancholy jests.
Anon deep luxury of sorrow—chords
Of gloom, grave marches that in dirges die!
To what stern gods, passion's calm overlords,
What magian race chants a sad litany?
What serene ecstasy that plaint rewards?
Of gloom, grave marches that in dirges die!
To what stern gods, passion's calm overlords,
What magian race chants a sad litany?
What serene ecstasy that plaint rewards?
No more! Cease now, ere the moon sink away
Beyond those elms, ere sadness 'gin to creep
About the world's heart as the east grows grey,
Troubling the vast solemnity of sleep,
And we must face the light of common day.
Beyond those elms, ere sadness 'gin to creep
About the world's heart as the east grows grey,
Troubling the vast solemnity of sleep,
And we must face the light of common day.
| Sounds and Sweet Airs | |