 | Under Green Leaves |  |
II. PART II.—HELL-PAINS.
Oh, vile, vile catgut-scrapers,
Tormentors of sweet Sound,
That bruise her, and destroy her,
My queen, my goddess crown'd!
What has dear Music done,
She that so loveth us,
Ye bloodless and stone-hearted,
That you should use her thus?
Tormentors of sweet Sound,
That bruise her, and destroy her,
My queen, my goddess crown'd!
What has dear Music done,
She that so loveth us,
Ye bloodless and stone-hearted,
That you should use her thus?
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Each movement of your arms
Goes through me like a pang!—
Ye singers and horn-blowers,
There's death in every twang!
'Twas surely Satan school'd you,
And well you've learn'd your parts,
To vex, to plague, to torture
Our unoffending hearts!
Goes through me like a pang!—
Ye singers and horn-blowers,
There's death in every twang!
'Twas surely Satan school'd you,
And well you've learn'd your parts,
To vex, to plague, to torture
Our unoffending hearts!
You could not be more cruel,
If, wielding barbs and prongs,
You dug them in my bosom,
And call'd the misery,—songs!
My ear is wrench'd and bleeding
At every note you make;
Be silent—oh, be silent—
For heavenly Pity's sake!
If, wielding barbs and prongs,
You dug them in my bosom,
And call'd the misery,—songs!
My ear is wrench'd and bleeding
At every note you make;
Be silent—oh, be silent—
For heavenly Pity's sake!
What would I give! what tribute
Of worship and of tears,
If Song, as I have dream'd it,
Could flow on my happy ears!
If one—one only singer,
Amid this peopled earth,
Could understand my music
As I who gave it birth;—
Such as my soul design'd it!—
Alas! 'tis vain to seek;—
Men sing, and the hot blood rushes
In madness to my cheek,
And women tear my heart out,
As they squeal, and scream, and shriek.
Of worship and of tears,
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Could flow on my happy ears!
If one—one only singer,
Amid this peopled earth,
Could understand my music
As I who gave it birth;—
Such as my soul design'd it!—
Alas! 'tis vain to seek;—
Men sing, and the hot blood rushes
In madness to my cheek,
And women tear my heart out,
As they squeal, and scream, and shriek.
Come, bore in my ear with corkscrews!
Make every nerve a knot,
And pierce my brain with needles,
If pain must be my lot;
But cease, oh! cease, in mercy,
This misery supreme,
That Hell can never equal!—
And let me lie and dream
That to my soul, long-suffering,
Will due reward be given,—
My music sung by angels
Amid the choir of Heaven!
Make every nerve a knot,
And pierce my brain with needles,
If pain must be my lot;
But cease, oh! cease, in mercy,
This misery supreme,
That Hell can never equal!—
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That to my soul, long-suffering,
Will due reward be given,—
My music sung by angels
Amid the choir of Heaven!
| Under Green Leaves | |