The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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THE CONCERT. |
 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
THE CONCERT.
The beams of day retire o'er western hills;
The concert room with gayest fashion fills;
The duke, the earl, and many a titled peer,
With fairest daughters, press the songs to hear.
The choral strength to-night is left behind,
While the delicious song enchants the mind.
The overture, performed in grandest style,
Calls forth applause, and many a beauteous smile.
Next come the songs which youthful lovers want,
In strains so rich, the coldest they enchant.
No instrument, but some great master's hand
Brings forth its powers to swell the tuneful band;
No fault is there, in music or in words,
For nothing added could improve the chords:
All is complete—the grand performance such,
Nothing there is too little or too much.
The concert room with gayest fashion fills;
The duke, the earl, and many a titled peer,
With fairest daughters, press the songs to hear.
The choral strength to-night is left behind,
While the delicious song enchants the mind.
The overture, performed in grandest style,
Calls forth applause, and many a beauteous smile.
Next come the songs which youthful lovers want,
In strains so rich, the coldest they enchant.
309
Brings forth its powers to swell the tuneful band;
No fault is there, in music or in words,
For nothing added could improve the chords:
All is complete—the grand performance such,
Nothing there is too little or too much.
The world's forgot, and grief and sorrow fly;
Anguish and care and melancholy die,
When music sweet thus trembles on the strings,
And lifts the mind above created things;
Soft raptures steal into the feeling breast,
Which, for some golden hours, is truly bless'd.
The double drums we now distinctly hear,
The clarionet, the horn, the hautboy clear;
The strong viola, and the serpent's tones;
The flutes, the trumpets, and the deep trombones;
The violoncello, and the double bass;
The viols, sweetest music of the place;
And on the air the varying notes are borne,
From the soft harp, and from the deep bass horn;
Then comes the song, with soft Italian chords,
Though sweet, yet few can understand the words.
How weak, insipid, formal, and how dead,
To Braham's “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled!”
Or “Rule Britannia,” which was heard before
In such like strains as England hears no more,
When Catalani sung it in such style
As made the concert room seem Britain's isle,
And all its millions met in one great throng,
To hear the grandeur of the noble song.
But let the concert be whate'er it will,
Greatly performed, with ev'ry master's skill;
Though all the parts in richest style we hear,
And solemn grandeur, they approach not near
In boldness and magnificence, to these
Which strike with wonder, or with terror freeze—
Great Handel's choruses, which shall be sung
While music lasts, or instruments are strung.
But human minds variety pursue,—
Music itself attracts the most when new;
But, when the praise of present music's pass'd,
Handel's grand choruses shall ever last.
Anguish and care and melancholy die,
When music sweet thus trembles on the strings,
And lifts the mind above created things;
Soft raptures steal into the feeling breast,
Which, for some golden hours, is truly bless'd.
The double drums we now distinctly hear,
The clarionet, the horn, the hautboy clear;
The strong viola, and the serpent's tones;
The flutes, the trumpets, and the deep trombones;
The violoncello, and the double bass;
The viols, sweetest music of the place;
And on the air the varying notes are borne,
From the soft harp, and from the deep bass horn;
Then comes the song, with soft Italian chords,
Though sweet, yet few can understand the words.
How weak, insipid, formal, and how dead,
To Braham's “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled!”
Or “Rule Britannia,” which was heard before
In such like strains as England hears no more,
310
As made the concert room seem Britain's isle,
And all its millions met in one great throng,
To hear the grandeur of the noble song.
But let the concert be whate'er it will,
Greatly performed, with ev'ry master's skill;
Though all the parts in richest style we hear,
And solemn grandeur, they approach not near
In boldness and magnificence, to these
Which strike with wonder, or with terror freeze—
Great Handel's choruses, which shall be sung
While music lasts, or instruments are strung.
But human minds variety pursue,—
Music itself attracts the most when new;
But, when the praise of present music's pass'd,
Handel's grand choruses shall ever last.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |