 | Sounds and Sweet Airs |  |
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The Harpsichord.
Inscribed to Violet Gordon Woodhouse.
This music-room itself is harmony,
Designed when still the clear-eyed Graces came
To watch the Master-Builder, dexterously
Prompting his hand harmonious lines to frame;
And all it holds is beautiful, and sings
In mellow modulations from the key:
You feel the quiet presence of old things
That charm, yet make no claim.
Designed when still the clear-eyed Graces came
To watch the Master-Builder, dexterously
Prompting his hand harmonious lines to frame;
And all it holds is beautiful, and sings
In mellow modulations from the key:
You feel the quiet presence of old things
That charm, yet make no claim.
It is a pleasant room, welcoming you
With stately air of courtesy antique,
Yet with a touch of homelier kindness too
Seeming of our less formal age to speak;
A room where you may sit in cosy nooks,
Sweet with well-tended flowers, and turn a few
Melodious pages of old music-books,
From shelves not far to seek.
With stately air of courtesy antique,
Yet with a touch of homelier kindness too
Seeming of our less formal age to speak;
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Sweet with well-tended flowers, and turn a few
Melodious pages of old music-books,
From shelves not far to seek.
There stands the cherished Harpsichord—the shrine
Wherein some frail ghost of old music dwells,
Brooding in trance over its youth divine,
Like ocean's voice asleep in caverned shells;
That woodwork breathes the balm of old repose,
The wearied eye rests in each gracious line:
It seems to whisper memories of old Beaux
Long vanished, and their Belles.
Wherein some frail ghost of old music dwells,
Brooding in trance over its youth divine,
Like ocean's voice asleep in caverned shells;
That woodwork breathes the balm of old repose,
The wearied eye rests in each gracious line:
It seems to whisper memories of old Beaux
Long vanished, and their Belles.
Perhaps young Purcell made the strings complain
With Dido's passion, when, as o'er strange seas
Voyaging, he won for England glorious gain
From lands yet virgin; or on those mute keys
May Arne have led the courtly minuet,
When by soft lanterns' light the sighing Swain
And cruel Nymph, Strephon and Chloe, met
Under the Vauxhall trees.
With Dido's passion, when, as o'er strange seas
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From lands yet virgin; or on those mute keys
May Arne have led the courtly minuet,
When by soft lanterns' light the sighing Swain
And cruel Nymph, Strephon and Chloe, met
Under the Vauxhall trees.
Perhaps—? But here the Lady of the Place,
The fair enchantress of this Home of Dreams,
Comes with all music's mystery in her face,
And visionary light around her gleams
From those unhurrying days when Music still
Tript her blithe measures with a high-born grace,
And voice and instrument with daintiest skill
Carolled her tuneful themes.
The fair enchantress of this Home of Dreams,
Comes with all music's mystery in her face,
And visionary light around her gleams
From those unhurrying days when Music still
Tript her blithe measures with a high-born grace,
And voice and instrument with daintiest skill
Carolled her tuneful themes.
Now Silence, bend thy ever-listening ear,
For Music wakes, and sighs prelusively;
All things that love sweet sounds, wake when they hear
Prediction of their solace in her sigh.
The jacks, obedient to their Lady's hand,
Leap at her summons; mightiest spirits draw near—
Listening the dead Old Masters round her stand,
A ghostly company.
For Music wakes, and sighs prelusively;
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Prediction of their solace in her sigh.
The jacks, obedient to their Lady's hand,
Leap at her summons; mightiest spirits draw near—
Listening the dead Old Masters round her stand,
A ghostly company.
Whom will she choose? Stern Bach smiles gravely now,
Flattered to find precedence in her choice,
It smooths the austerest wrinkles on his brow
To hear his own renown-embalmèd voice
Upsoar like dawn's first lark, yet with the wings
Of the untiring eagle. Praised be thou,
Great Master, who at music's deepest springs
Mad'st men drink and rejoice!
Flattered to find precedence in her choice,
It smooths the austerest wrinkles on his brow
To hear his own renown-embalmèd voice
Upsoar like dawn's first lark, yet with the wings
Of the untiring eagle. Praised be thou,
Great Master, who at music's deepest springs
Mad'st men drink and rejoice!
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O passionate rigour, clear intricacy
Of melodies weaving delight a bower,
Victorious tactic of a branching tree
Seeking the sun, with beauty for its dower!
A primrose on a rock, tenderness here
Smiles in the lap of grim austerity.
The seed of all we welcome year by year
Slept in this perfect flower.
Of melodies weaving delight a bower,
Victorious tactic of a branching tree
Seeking the sun, with beauty for its dower!
A primrose on a rock, tenderness here
Smiles in the lap of grim austerity.
The seed of all we welcome year by year
Slept in this perfect flower.
The strenuous incantation soars away
Into dumb space; the ardent South succeeds
The earnest North. Scarlatti's breezy sway
Wakens the nymph's voice in the sighing reeds;
The busy strings buzz like Hyblæan bees,
Sicilian shepherds, making holiday,
Pipe while their flocks rest by great olive-trees,
Or crop the thymy meads.
Into dumb space; the ardent South succeeds
The earnest North. Scarlatti's breezy sway
Wakens the nymph's voice in the sighing reeds;
The busy strings buzz like Hyblæan bees,
Sicilian shepherds, making holiday,
Pipe while their flocks rest by great olive-trees,
Or crop the thymy meads.
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Now golden Summer follows herald Spring,
And what rich heart throbs in each trembling wire?
What nightingale doth so divinely sing,
What mystic rose this passion could inspire?
It is the love-led prince who woke from sleep
Beauty, Mozart, whom Death struck ere her king
Music had crowned him, leaving her to weep
Her ne'er appeased desire.
And what rich heart throbs in each trembling wire?
What nightingale doth so divinely sing,
What mystic rose this passion could inspire?
It is the love-led prince who woke from sleep
Beauty, Mozart, whom Death struck ere her king
Music had crowned him, leaving her to weep
Her ne'er appeased desire.
Here to himself he sings—a child who roves
Rejoicing in the meadows of sweet sound,
With amorous litanies for all he loves,
When life's young buds are bursting all around;
We hear, and walk with him in glad surprise,
Each common flower mysterious rapture moves,
Fresh with the dews of that lost Paradise,
Childhood's enchanted ground.
Rejoicing in the meadows of sweet sound,
With amorous litanies for all he loves,
When life's young buds are bursting all around;
We hear, and walk with him in glad surprise,
Each common flower mysterious rapture moves,
Fresh with the dews of that lost Paradise,
Childhood's enchanted ground.
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The Harpsichord breathes like a wilding rose,
Enamoured of her tenant bird, who stays
But while he sings, then from her branches goes;
And I, like her, desolate many days,
Must mourn the joy flown with those flying fingers,
When the lorn strings they left in sad repose;
Yet echoing still the truant music lingers
In memory's woodland ways.
Enamoured of her tenant bird, who stays
But while he sings, then from her branches goes;
And I, like her, desolate many days,
Must mourn the joy flown with those flying fingers,
When the lorn strings they left in sad repose;
Yet echoing still the truant music lingers
In memory's woodland ways.
| Sounds and Sweet Airs | |