 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
207
AN UNKNOWN MASTER
Ah! how he flung his heart upon the page,
That old musician; yet, methinks, 'tis all
He left us, redolent of kindly age,
This mellow madrigal:
That old musician; yet, methinks, 'tis all
He left us, redolent of kindly age,
This mellow madrigal:
Long, long the days ere this one strain might be!
He heard the plaintive whisper of the shower
On streaming walls, and waited lingeringly
For one celestial hour.
He heard the plaintive whisper of the shower
On streaming walls, and waited lingeringly
For one celestial hour.
More skilful fell the deft, unwavering hand;
More negligent the soaring spirit grew;
A dreaming soul that indolently planned,
And still deferred to do.
More negligent the soaring spirit grew;
A dreaming soul that indolently planned,
And still deferred to do.
Sudden it came: 'twas on a summer night;
The towers loomed black against an emerald sky,
The scent of flowers that sickened in the light
Went richly wandering by:
The towers loomed black against an emerald sky,
The scent of flowers that sickened in the light
Went richly wandering by:
A rhythmic music beat upon his brain,
A passion too intense to be denied;—
Eager and airy came the opening strain,
The chords unite, divide,
A passion too intense to be denied;—
Eager and airy came the opening strain,
The chords unite, divide,
208
Or hang suspended, as a breaker leans
O'er-arched, before it whitens on the shore;
Pure as the silent evening's greys and greens,
As more and ever more
O'er-arched, before it whitens on the shore;
Pure as the silent evening's greys and greens,
As more and ever more
Beat the quick waves of harmony austere,
Marred by no frail and faulty instrument,
But as the angels sing within their sphere,
Above the morning bent,
Marred by no frail and faulty instrument,
But as the angels sing within their sphere,
Above the morning bent,
All night the patient hand untiring wrote,
Till morning rimmed the east with smouldering fire,
Until the drowsy bird's uncertain note
Attuned the awakened choir.
Till morning rimmed the east with smouldering fire,
Until the drowsy bird's uncertain note
Attuned the awakened choir.
Then sank the fount of music: sank and died
To rise no more beneath the lingering touch:
Was this ethereal gem contemned, decried,
Or praised, perchance, too much?
To rise no more beneath the lingering touch:
Was this ethereal gem contemned, decried,
Or praised, perchance, too much?
Was he disheartened that his message beat
With hand too faint the slumbering doors of men?
Or did he soar, his rapture incomplete,
To dreams beyond our ken?
With hand too faint the slumbering doors of men?
Or did he soar, his rapture incomplete,
To dreams beyond our ken?
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |