A little book of tribune verse A number of hitherto uncollected poems, grave and gay |
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ODE TO THE PASSIONS. |
 | A little book of tribune verse |  |
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ODE TO THE PASSIONS.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
Before the gods, 'tis said she sung,
And instruments of every kind
She brought to please the godlike mind.
Before the gods, 'tis said she sung,
And instruments of every kind
She brought to please the godlike mind.
And first the Fiddles, great and small,
With tightened strings and resined bows,
Surprised and charmed the Olympians all,
With solemn, sad adagios.
With tightened strings and resined bows,
Surprised and charmed the Olympians all,
With solemn, sad adagios.
Then rushed anon with throbbing tones
The train of tremulous Trombones,
Now swelling like a tropic gale,
Now lulled into a whiffling wail,
The gods all wept, the gods all smiled,
By starts were soft, by fits were wild.
The train of tremulous Trombones,
Now swelling like a tropic gale,
Now lulled into a whiffling wail,
The gods all wept, the gods all smiled,
By starts were soft, by fits were wild.
With quiet mien and modest grace,
The Hurdygurdy came apace,
And groaned a grind,
So sweet and tremulous of kind,
Fair Cytheraea hid her face,
And as the echoes filled her ears,
She smiled serenely through her tears,
And went it blind.
The Hurdygurdy came apace,
And groaned a grind,
So sweet and tremulous of kind,
Fair Cytheraea hid her face,
And as the echoes filled her ears,
She smiled serenely through her tears,
And went it blind.
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Next came the Cymbals, full of fire,
And, with a fierce and brazen ire,
They smote a smast!
The frightened gods surged to and fro,
Dumbfounded by the blaring blow,
And all aghast,
Back they recoiled—the demons passed.
And, with a fierce and brazen ire,
They smote a smast!
The frightened gods surged to and fro,
Dumbfounded by the blaring blow,
And all aghast,
Back they recoiled—the demons passed.
But thou, O Flute, with murmurings low,
Call'st back the tears into their eyes,
And Juno, mute with glad surprise,
Binds fragrant fillets round her brow,
While Father Jove—no critic he—
Exclaims, in honest, burly, glee,
“Waal, waal, I swow!”
Thy tones are like the waterfall,
Or nightingales' seductive call,
Thou art a warbler fair!
And Bacchus waves his golden hair
With pleasure when thy strain begins,
And, rising on the ravished air,
He shakes
Ten thousand odors from his whisky skins.
Call'st back the tears into their eyes,
And Juno, mute with glad surprise,
Binds fragrant fillets round her brow,
While Father Jove—no critic he—
Exclaims, in honest, burly, glee,
“Waal, waal, I swow!”
Thy tones are like the waterfall,
Or nightingales' seductive call,
Thou art a warbler fair!
And Bacchus waves his golden hair
With pleasure when thy strain begins,
And, rising on the ravished air,
He shakes
Ten thousand odors from his whisky skins.
November 6th, 1882.
| A little book of tribune verse | |