University of Virginia Library

Sonnets on Musical Instruments.

I. THE VIOLIN.

The versatile, discursive Violin,
Light, tender, brilliant, passionate or calm,
Sliding with careless nonchalance within
His range of ready utterance, wins the palm
Of victory o'er his fellows for his grace;
Fine fluent speaker, polished gentleman—
Well may he be the leader in the race
Of blending instruments—fighting in the van
With conscious ease and fine chivalric speed;
A very Bayard in the field of sound,
Rallying his struggling followers in their need,
And spurring them to keep their hard-earned ground.
So the fifth Henry fought at Azincour,
And led his followers to the breach once more.

II. THE VIOLONCELLO.

Larger and more matured, deeper in thought
Slower in speech and of a graver tone,
His ardour softened as if years had wrought
Wise moods upon him, living all alone,
A calm and philosophic eremite;
Yet at some feeling of remembered things,
Or passion smothered, but not purgéd quite.
Hark! what a depth of sorrow in those strings;
See, what a storm growls in his angry breast!
Yet list again—his voice no longer moans,
The storm hath spent its rage and is at rest;
Strong, self-possessed the Violoncello's tones,
But yet too oft like Hamlet seem to me
A high soul struggling with its destiny.

III. THE OBOE.

Now come with me beside the sedgy brook,
Far in the fields, away from crowded street;
Into the flowing water let us look,
While o'er our heads the whispering elm-trees meet.
There will we listen to a simple tale
Of fireside pleasures and of shepherds' loves.
A reedy voice sweet as the nightingale,
As tender as the cooing of the doves,
Shall sing of Corydon and Amaryllis;
The grasshopper shall chirp, the bee shall hum,
The stream shall murmur to the waterlilies,
And all the sounds of summer-noon shall come,
And mingling in the Oboe's pastoral tone,
Make thee forget that man did ever sigh and moan.

IV. TRUMPETS AND TROMBONES.

A band of martial riders next I hear,
Whose sharp brass voices cut and rend the air.
The shepherd's tale is mute, and now the ear
Is filled with a wilder clang than it can bear;
Those arrowy trumpet notes so short and bright,
The long-drawn wailing of that loud Trombone,
Tell of the bloody and tumultuous fight,
The march of victory and the dying groan;
O'er the green fields the serried squadrons pour,
Killing and burning like the bolts of heaven;
The sweetest flowers with cannon-smoke and gore
Are all profaned, and Innocence is driven
Forth from her cottages and woody streams,
While over all, red Battle fiercely gleams.

V. THE HORNS.

But who are these, far in the leafy wood,
Murmuring such mellow, hesitating notes,
It seems the very breath of solitude,
Loading with dewy balm each breeze that floats?
They are a peasant group, I know them well,
The diffident, conscious Horns, whose muffled speech
But half expresses what their souls would tell,
Aiming at strains their skill can never reach;
An untaught rustic band; and yet how sweet
And soothing comes their music o'er the soul.
Dear Poets of the forest, who would meet
Your melodies save where wild waters roll?
Reminding us of Him who by his plough
Walked with a laurel-wreath upon his brow!