 | Poems |  |
157
EPISTLE TO SWAN,
Musical composer, and author of an admirable old piece called China.
My unknown, much-respected friend,
Pray pardon this aggression;
'T is from beginning to the end
But simply a confession.
The Muse is somewhat hard to please,
And little prone to flatter,
But when true excellence she sees,
It alters much the matter.
Pray pardon this aggression;
'T is from beginning to the end
But simply a confession.
The Muse is somewhat hard to please,
And little prone to flatter,
But when true excellence she sees,
It alters much the matter.
Know then I have an open ear,
(Be'ng also second-sighted;)
And when rich melody I hear,
My very soul's delighted.
When Spring her flowery mantle shows
I list the feathered choir;
When Eolus to Autumn blows
I hear an unseen lyre.
(Be'ng also second-sighted;)
And when rich melody I hear,
My very soul's delighted.
When Spring her flowery mantle shows
I list the feathered choir;
When Eolus to Autumn blows
I hear an unseen lyre.
The music of the human voice
Has many charms for me
When some sweet anthem of my choice
Trills forth in melody.
There is a sweet pathetic air
Whose smoothly gliding numbers
Give calm forgetfulness to care,
And to the sleepless slumbers.
Has many charms for me
When some sweet anthem of my choice
Trills forth in melody.
There is a sweet pathetic air
Whose smoothly gliding numbers
Give calm forgetfulness to care,
And to the sleepless slumbers.
In ancient China's plaintive notes
What melting music blends!
Aloft the airy tenor floats,
The solemn bass descends.
The man who undelighted hears
Its well-chimed accents roll,
Must have a bubble in his ears—
No music in his soul.
What melting music blends!
Aloft the airy tenor floats,
The solemn bass descends.
The man who undelighted hears
Its well-chimed accents roll,
158
No music in his soul.
Sir, I protest against the sage
Refinements of the day,
For aught that bears the stamp of age
Is thrust in scorn away.
But list, my friend, a minim rest!
This day I'm bold to say—
Mark Folly with a glossy crest,
But Wisdom's head is gray.
Refinements of the day,
For aught that bears the stamp of age
Is thrust in scorn away.
But list, my friend, a minim rest!
This day I'm bold to say—
Mark Folly with a glossy crest,
But Wisdom's head is gray.
Would some kind Power might hear our prayers—
Again old measures bring,
And give us back the ancient airs
Our fathers used to sing!
Curs'd be the discord-working pen
Struck China from the list!
Strange! that among the sons of men
Such goose-quills should exist.
Again old measures bring,
And give us back the ancient airs
Our fathers used to sing!
Curs'd be the discord-working pen
Struck China from the list!
Strange! that among the sons of men
Such goose-quills should exist.
How oft the zephyrs of applause
Waft bubbles to the skies,
When, from some ill-accounted cause,
True worth unlifted lies!
But what I more would say to you
Will do in vulgar prose;
So with a sentiment or two
My hasty verse will close.
Waft bubbles to the skies,
When, from some ill-accounted cause,
True worth unlifted lies!
But what I more would say to you
Will do in vulgar prose;
So with a sentiment or two
My hasty verse will close.
Art thou a son of harmony?
And am I not another?
Then give the welcome hand to me,
My elder minstrel brother!
The river that between us rolls
Has not the power to sever
The unison of kindred souls,
And let us part it never!
And am I not another?
Then give the welcome hand to me,
My elder minstrel brother!
The river that between us rolls
Has not the power to sever
159
And let us part it never!
| Poems | |