Xeniola Poems, including Translations from Schiller and De la Motte Fouqube. By John Anster |
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THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC. |
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THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC.
Lonely was the blossoming
Of the sad unwelcomed Spring;
And Man, the slave of passions blind and brute,
A wanderer in a world where all was mute.
Sound for the ear, or symbol for the heart
Was none; and Music was a later birth—
The thoughts, we find no language to impart,
Die;—and thus Love was dying from the earth.
Of the sad unwelcomed Spring;
And Man, the slave of passions blind and brute,
A wanderer in a world where all was mute.
Sound for the ear, or symbol for the heart
Was none; and Music was a later birth—
The thoughts, we find no language to impart,
Die;—and thus Love was dying from the earth.
Then of the Heavenly was there a revealing,
That harmonized the chaos of Man's breast;
Above—around—within—the hidden feeling
Found language—Music is but Love expressed.
The nightingale in every rich love-note
To Man speaks love; and, when the vexed wind rushes
Through moaning forests, Man's mind is afloat
In the wild symphony. The liquid gushes
Of the thin tinkling rivulet—the tone
Of Zephyrus, that whispers Flowers half-blown,
Tempting the lingerers to dare the May—
Do they not with them wile Man's heart away?
And oft, as in a car of fire, elate
The soul ascends, on Music's wings, in gleams
Of momentary triumph, to Heaven's gate—
A happy wanderer in the world of dreams!
That harmonized the chaos of Man's breast;
Above—around—within—the hidden feeling
Found language—Music is but Love expressed.
The nightingale in every rich love-note
To Man speaks love; and, when the vexed wind rushes
Through moaning forests, Man's mind is afloat
In the wild symphony. The liquid gushes
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Of Zephyrus, that whispers Flowers half-blown,
Tempting the lingerers to dare the May—
Do they not with them wile Man's heart away?
And oft, as in a car of fire, elate
The soul ascends, on Music's wings, in gleams
Of momentary triumph, to Heaven's gate—
A happy wanderer in the world of dreams!
Spell, that soothest, elevatest!
Language of the land unknown!
Music, earliest charm and latest,
In gladness and in gladness gone!
Language of the land unknown!
Music, earliest charm and latest,
In gladness and in gladness gone!
Shrieking in his mother's arms
Infant passions vex the child:—
Murmur low the lulling charms,
Pain is soothed and reconciled.
Infant passions vex the child:—
Murmur low the lulling charms,
Pain is soothed and reconciled.
Magic mystery of numbers,
Thine to soothe away, and lighten
Grief!—and thine the cradled slumbers
With thy dreams of gold to brighten!
Thine to soothe away, and lighten
Grief!—and thine the cradled slumbers
With thy dreams of gold to brighten!
To the dance!—to the dance!—'tis the
summer-time of life
And Music invites—to the dance—to the dance—
Old age has its sorrows, and manhood its strife,
Care darkens the forehead, dispirits the glance.
For the weary hath Music its accents of healing;
But in youth what a charm in each jubilee-note;
To the dance—to the dance!—How the rapturous feeling
Gives wings to the feet—sends the spirit afloat!
And Music invites—to the dance—to the dance—
Old age has its sorrows, and manhood its strife,
Care darkens the forehead, dispirits the glance.
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But in youth what a charm in each jubilee-note;
To the dance—to the dance!—How the rapturous feeling
Gives wings to the feet—sends the spirit afloat!
With the Joyous doth Music rejoice!
'Tis the stilly time of night,
And the soft star-light
Smiles in heaven—and—hark—the guitar!
And hush—'tis the young lover's voice
To his own—to his earthly star.
'Tis the stilly time of night,
And the soft star-light
Smiles in heaven—and—hark—the guitar!
And hush—'tis the young lover's voice
To his own—to his earthly star.
And She is His—in vain—in vain
Would woman burst the magic chain
Of love and love-inwoven sound;—
Love-inwoven Sounds—ye come,
And are language to the dumb,
Heal the wounded heart—the hard heart ye wound!
Would woman burst the magic chain
Of love and love-inwoven sound;—
Love-inwoven Sounds—ye come,
And are language to the dumb,
Heal the wounded heart—the hard heart ye wound!
To the battle—to the battle—Hurry out—
To the tumult—and the shriek and the shout:
Hark the bugle—how it thrills—“To the strife”—
“What is life?”—and the trumpet—“What is life?”
In every tone is Victory—how they scatter into air,
Before the sunny Music, clouds of doubt, and fear, and care.
Already is the triumph won!—already Fancy weaves,
Dyed in the blood of enemies, the wreath of laurel leaves!
To the tumult—and the shriek and the shout:
Hark the bugle—how it thrills—“To the strife”—
“What is life?”—and the trumpet—“What is life?”
In every tone is Victory—how they scatter into air,
Before the sunny Music, clouds of doubt, and fear, and care.
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Dyed in the blood of enemies, the wreath of laurel leaves!
Wild in the war-whoop what ominous voices
We hear o'er the battle-field pealing aloft—
Peace smiles: in her sweet smile the green earth rejoices
And welcoming Music comes mellow and soft.
We hear o'er the battle-field pealing aloft—
Peace smiles: in her sweet smile the green earth rejoices
And welcoming Music comes mellow and soft.
Slow down cathedral aisles streams prayer and praise,
As, home returning from the battle-field,
Their hands and hearts the joyous victors raise
To Him, who in the battle was their shield.
As, home returning from the battle-field,
Their hands and hearts the joyous victors raise
To Him, who in the battle was their shield.
Listen to the Death-bell tolling,
And its accents of consoling,
Telling, to the long oppressed,
That the weary is at rest,
To the mourner whispering
Of an everlasting spring;
Soothing thus, and reconciling,
Softening, and to tears beguiling,
With their measured murmurs deep,
Agony, that could not weep!
And its accents of consoling,
Telling, to the long oppressed,
That the weary is at rest,
To the mourner whispering
Of an everlasting spring;
Soothing thus, and reconciling,
Softening, and to tears beguiling,
With their measured murmurs deep,
Agony, that could not weep!
Mysterious Tones! and is it that you are
The dreamy voices of a world unknown,
Heard faintly from the Paradise afar,
Our Father's home, and yet to be our own!
The dreamy voices of a world unknown,
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Our Father's home, and yet to be our own!
Breathe on! breathe on, sweet tones!—still sing
to me,
Still sing to me of that angelic shore,
That I may dream myself in heaven to be,
And fancy life and all its sorrows o'er!
Still sing to me of that angelic shore,
That I may dream myself in heaven to be,
And fancy life and all its sorrows o'er!
1836.
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