 | Sounds and Sweet Airs |  |
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Schubert's Trio in E♭ Major.
Ay, in the very Temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine.”
—Keats.
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine.”
—Keats.
Inscribed to Mrs. Gordon Woodhouse, Mrs.
Carpenter, and Señor Rubio.
I. A Prelude.
In what remotest glades of phantasy
Were these rich tones first heard? What sunburnt race,
Shepherds of some diviner Arcady,
Found for these measures a green dancing-place?
From what untrodden region of delight
Where Keats might muse, Giorgione lie at ease
Long visionary hours, his brush cast by,
Did Schubert, Music's loneliest eremite,
Bear in his heart melodious flowers like these
Unfading roses that superbly sigh?
Were these rich tones first heard? What sunburnt race,
Shepherds of some diviner Arcady,
Found for these measures a green dancing-place?
From what untrodden region of delight
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Long visionary hours, his brush cast by,
Did Schubert, Music's loneliest eremite,
Bear in his heart melodious flowers like these
Unfading roses that superbly sigh?
O sounds that float like odours in the air
When flowers rejoice in sunshine and fresh dew!
Old Pan finds now more mystical and rare
Voices for his dumb passion than when he drew
Sighs from soft reeds. White naiads of the streams
Laugh in these rippling keys, and mourn anon;
The violin, a bird all air and fire,
Soars; the deep viol remembers earth's lost dreams:
The god's unslumbering woe breathes in each tone,
And wakes in every heart its own desire.
When flowers rejoice in sunshine and fresh dew!
Old Pan finds now more mystical and rare
Voices for his dumb passion than when he drew
Sighs from soft reeds. White naiads of the streams
Laugh in these rippling keys, and mourn anon;
The violin, a bird all air and fire,
Soars; the deep viol remembers earth's lost dreams:
The god's unslumbering woe breathes in each tone,
And wakes in every heart its own desire.
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II. The Trio.
Here, to brisk pastoral measures moving now,
Through happy lawns isled in the greenwood shade,
Come, with fresh-gathered chaplets on each brow,
Many a brown shepherd, many a lovely maid;
Yet all around mysterious voices call,
Mysterious wings are hovering in the air,
Strange presences felt in the dryad's home;
For Life and Death meet at Love's festival;
Sorrow and Joy with mingled rites prepare
His woodland mysteries, as these dancers come.
Through happy lawns isled in the greenwood shade,
Come, with fresh-gathered chaplets on each brow,
Many a brown shepherd, many a lovely maid;
Yet all around mysterious voices call,
Mysterious wings are hovering in the air,
Strange presences felt in the dryad's home;
For Life and Death meet at Love's festival;
Sorrow and Joy with mingled rites prepare
His woodland mysteries, as these dancers come.
But here the sun sheds golden afternoon
Through forest-places, haunts of innocent glee,
Therefore, with feet by that compelling tune
Inspired, dance on, glad lovers! What reck ye
Though Death and Sorrow, while Time's hour-glass runs,
Threaten like snakes among the whispering leaves?
Where Love walks robed and crowned, what should Youth fear?
Dance then, till graver thoughts wake at the sun's
Farewell, and the faint sigh pale twilight heaves
Lulls every flower, as the shy stars appear.
Through forest-places, haunts of innocent glee,
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Inspired, dance on, glad lovers! What reck ye
Though Death and Sorrow, while Time's hour-glass runs,
Threaten like snakes among the whispering leaves?
Where Love walks robed and crowned, what should Youth fear?
Dance then, till graver thoughts wake at the sun's
Farewell, and the faint sigh pale twilight heaves
Lulls every flower, as the shy stars appear.
Now 'tis Love's hour; his spirit, the nightingale,
Immortal in this music, sings again
As in the old forest of that Venetian tale,
Where to the piping Shepherd's lonely strain
Love lent his voice, and with sad melody
Made weep the enamoured Princess. Now the moon
Of mystery gleams through dusk ambrosial trees,
And with her spell sets prisoned rapture free,
And every heart beats to the rapturous tune
Of Love's own bird, in secret esctasies.
Immortal in this music, sings again
As in the old forest of that Venetian tale,
Where to the piping Shepherd's lonely strain
Love lent his voice, and with sad melody
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Of mystery gleams through dusk ambrosial trees,
And with her spell sets prisoned rapture free,
And every heart beats to the rapturous tune
Of Love's own bird, in secret esctasies.
Strange incantation! Answering that lone voice,
From earth to heaven tumultuous harmony
Soaring, awakes the demons who rejoice
In storm and tempest, and wild battle's glee.
The Arcadian gods leap from their forest lair
To the old unending fight, fought long ago,
To mournful chords, they march with slow stern tread;
The Nameless Ones, whose magic plagues the air,
Yield like rent clouds when the Moon bends her bow,
And Joy, still trembling, lifts his cowering head.
From earth to heaven tumultuous harmony
Soaring, awakes the demons who rejoice
In storm and tempest, and wild battle's glee.
The Arcadian gods leap from their forest lair
To the old unending fight, fought long ago,
To mournful chords, they march with slow stern tread;
The Nameless Ones, whose magic plagues the air,
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And Joy, still trembling, lifts his cowering head.
But what blithe notes are these? No mortal mirth
So finely blends with the vast sounds of night;
It is the happy spirits of the earth
Who hold mad revel here in Fate's despite,
The eager Fauns and gentle Dryads here
Are dancing recklessly in frolic mood,
Votaries of genial Pan, the Moon, and Love,
Whose mingled music charms Night's listening ear;
While the rapt bird sits dumb, then from yon wood
Repeats her lone cry to the stars above.
So finely blends with the vast sounds of night;
It is the happy spirits of the earth
Who hold mad revel here in Fate's despite,
The eager Fauns and gentle Dryads here
Are dancing recklessly in frolic mood,
Votaries of genial Pan, the Moon, and Love,
Whose mingled music charms Night's listening ear;
While the rapt bird sits dumb, then from yon wood
Repeats her lone cry to the stars above.
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Nay, 'twas no timorous nightingale we heard:
When that bird sings the answering tempest sweeps
Over the earth intent upon some word
Heard in the storm, and sounding from the deeps.
Life's nightmare flies with all her spectral train,
The Fauns are dancing still; like warriors bold
The Shepherds march as from a glorious field,
Night in her majesty appears again;
The passion of the tale Music hath told
Ends now in triumph. Sorrow's heart is healed.
When that bird sings the answering tempest sweeps
Over the earth intent upon some word
Heard in the storm, and sounding from the deeps.
Life's nightmare flies with all her spectral train,
The Fauns are dancing still; like warriors bold
The Shepherds march as from a glorious field,
Night in her majesty appears again;
The passion of the tale Music hath told
Ends now in triumph. Sorrow's heart is healed.
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