 | Sounds and Sweet Airs |  |
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Chopin's Nocturnes.
“Where music and moonlight and feeling are one.”
Inscribed to a Fair Sibyl.
I. His Instrument.
Music's coy maiden waited her musician,Her heart the dungeon of her sweetest words,
Dumb as all hearts ere Love, the young magician,
Charms them to flame like flowers and sing like birds;
Till one fine Spirit at last wooed like a lover
The cold virginity of these white keys,
And bade these trembling strings discover
Their secret exquisite reveries.
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II. Music and Moonlight.
Shut out the world! No sense of its mad care,
Its din and sordid strife mar night's rich gloom,
Or with a memory trouble the delicate air
Of this one room, your own—of this one room
Your heart has made its treasury of things rare.
Its din and sordid strife mar night's rich gloom,
Or with a memory trouble the delicate air
Of this one room, your own—of this one room
Your heart has made its treasury of things rare.
There sigh your gathered roses, red and white,
And by yon casement, in one symphony
Of odours breathed on the warm air of night,
Verbena, and mignonette, and rosemary,
And myrtle prelude some delicious rite.
And by yon casement, in one symphony
Of odours breathed on the warm air of night,
Verbena, and mignonette, and rosemary,
And myrtle prelude some delicious rite.
No need for candles when voluptuous June
Makes night one long twilight of stars and clouds,
And o'er your garden trees the royal moon
Tames with her splendour her bright courtier crowds,
And all things tremble as to a nocturne's tune.
Makes night one long twilight of stars and clouds,
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Tames with her splendour her bright courtier crowds,
And all things tremble as to a nocturne's tune.
Ah! give their passion utterance, key by key!
To your proud roses oft you have played alone;
To-night for no proud roses, but for me
You shall set music on her silver throne,
Though every rose should fade for jealousy.
To your proud roses oft you have played alone;
To-night for no proud roses, but for me
You shall set music on her silver throne,
Though every rose should fade for jealousy.
They shall not fade; but from old Omar's tomb
Faintly their Persian sisters' breath divine
Shall, as you play, float to me through the gloom,
And East and West, as in one mystic wine,
Mingle their spirits in music and perfume.
Faintly their Persian sisters' breath divine
Shall, as you play, float to me through the gloom,
And East and West, as in one mystic wine,
Mingle their spirits in music and perfume.
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III. The Nocturnes.
The music wakes and, like a potent rime,
Charms me away to a dim land that lies
Beyond the churlish insults of grey Time,
And in my ear slow rippling melodies
Whisper their legends of that golden clime.
Charms me away to a dim land that lies
Beyond the churlish insults of grey Time,
And in my ear slow rippling melodies
Whisper their legends of that golden clime.
There Love's glad child, Romance, pines not away,
A frail flower withering in the winds of morn,
And many a dream entombed in earth's cold clay
In that enchanted land awakes re-born.
The hours are kind and Beauty grows not grey.
A frail flower withering in the winds of morn,
And many a dream entombed in earth's cold clay
In that enchanted land awakes re-born.
The hours are kind and Beauty grows not grey.
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There the wild dæmons that in us rave and sigh—
Pride, Love, Grief, Joy, Despair, and Melancholy,
Robed for their parts in Life's high tragedy,
Like stately knights and damsels moving slowly
To music, pass in sumptuous pageant by.
Pride, Love, Grief, Joy, Despair, and Melancholy,
Robed for their parts in Life's high tragedy,
Like stately knights and damsels moving slowly
To music, pass in sumptuous pageant by.
Now, in a land of lakes or broad lagunes,
By glimmering waters lovers meet and part
In moonlit groves, or float where sunset swoons
O'er cities like some Venice of the heart,
Where all the air is full of languorous tunes.
By glimmering waters lovers meet and part
In moonlit groves, or float where sunset swoons
O'er cities like some Venice of the heart,
Where all the air is full of languorous tunes.
And now, perchance, a daintier theme suggests
An idyll where, with a sad smile, Watteau,
'Mong gallants trim and ladies with white breasts,
Paints Love, in some fantastic Fontainebleau,
Bandying with Pleasure melancholy jests.
An idyll where, with a sad smile, Watteau,
'Mong gallants trim and ladies with white breasts,
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Bandying with Pleasure melancholy jests.
Anon deep luxury of sorrow—chords
Of gloom, grave marches that in dirges die!
To what stern gods, passion's calm overlords,
What magian race chants a sad litany?
What serene ecstasy that plaint rewards?
Of gloom, grave marches that in dirges die!
To what stern gods, passion's calm overlords,
What magian race chants a sad litany?
What serene ecstasy that plaint rewards?
No more! Cease now, ere the moon sink away
Beyond those elms, ere sadness 'gin to creep
About the world's heart as the east grows grey,
Troubling the vast solemnity of sleep,
And we must face the light of common day.
Beyond those elms, ere sadness 'gin to creep
About the world's heart as the east grows grey,
Troubling the vast solemnity of sleep,
And we must face the light of common day.
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