 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
51
ODE TO MUSIC
Soul of the world!
Spirit of slumbrous things, whate'er thou art,
Who dreamest smiling, with bright pinions furled,
Deep, deep, beyond the noise of street and mart,
In forest spaces, or in pastures wide,
Where the hot noonday weaves a breathless spell,
Along the unfrequented river-side,
Amid the cool smell of the weedy stream;
Of sight and scent thou dreamest well—
But music is thine earliest and thy latest dream!
Spirit of slumbrous things, whate'er thou art,
Who dreamest smiling, with bright pinions furled,
Deep, deep, beyond the noise of street and mart,
In forest spaces, or in pastures wide,
Where the hot noonday weaves a breathless spell,
Along the unfrequented river-side,
Amid the cool smell of the weedy stream;
Of sight and scent thou dreamest well—
But music is thine earliest and thy latest dream!
O far-off time!
Ere sound was tamed by gracious mastery,
Faint fugue of wakening birds at matin prime,
Or mid-day booming of the laden bee,
Bass of the plunging stream, or softly stirr'd,
The crawling sea's monotonous undertone,
Or windy lowing of the forest herd,
Thin pipe of dancing flies at shut of day,
Winds in wild places making moan—
These were the songs of earth, in artless disarray.
Ere sound was tamed by gracious mastery,
Faint fugue of wakening birds at matin prime,
Or mid-day booming of the laden bee,
Bass of the plunging stream, or softly stirr'd,
The crawling sea's monotonous undertone,
Or windy lowing of the forest herd,
52
Winds in wild places making moan—
These were the songs of earth, in artless disarray.
O march of years!
The simple days are dead, the rich tides roll,
And we, the inheritors of toil and tears,
Utter the ampler message of the soul.
How clear the subtle proem! Murmuring sweet
The soft wood whispers; on the silence leap
The shivering strings, with motion fairy-fleet,
Soul-shattering trumpets, lending fire and glow;
The mighty organ wakes from sleep,
And rolls his thund'rous diapasons, loud and low.
The simple days are dead, the rich tides roll,
And we, the inheritors of toil and tears,
Utter the ampler message of the soul.
How clear the subtle proem! Murmuring sweet
The soft wood whispers; on the silence leap
The shivering strings, with motion fairy-fleet,
Soul-shattering trumpets, lending fire and glow;
The mighty organ wakes from sleep,
And rolls his thund'rous diapasons, loud and low.
Behold us met!
In no light fancy, no inglorious mirth,
But strong to labour, striving well to set
The crown of song upon the brows of earth.
Music, be this thy temple hourly blest,
Of sweet and serious law the abiding-place;
Bid us be patient! Bid us love the best!
Climb, gently climb, to summits yet untrod,
Spirit of sweetness, spirit of grace,
Voice of the soul, soft echo of the mind of God!
In no light fancy, no inglorious mirth,
But strong to labour, striving well to set
The crown of song upon the brows of earth.
Music, be this thy temple hourly blest,
Of sweet and serious law the abiding-place;
Bid us be patient! Bid us love the best!
Climb, gently climb, to summits yet untrod,
Spirit of sweetness, spirit of grace,
Voice of the soul, soft echo of the mind of God!
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |