 | Sounds and Sweet Airs |  |
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Dvořák's “Dumky” Trio.
Inscribed to Sir C. Hubert H. Parry, Mus. Doc.
What have your moods to say to me,
Coy melodies of many a mood,
Changing measure, changing key,
Brief lilts of music that elude
Capture, so wilfully?
Coy melodies of many a mood,
Changing measure, changing key,
Brief lilts of music that elude
Capture, so wilfully?
Old joys and sorrows living on
In memories of the peasant's heart
Into these wild strains have gone;
And like the birds, with natural art,
Woodcutters in forests old,
Shepherd lads on lonely hills,
And maids amilking have consoled
With such grave notes and plaintive trills
Their homely sorrows, else untold.
In memories of the peasant's heart
Into these wild strains have gone;
And like the birds, with natural art,
Woodcutters in forests old,
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And maids amilking have consoled
With such grave notes and plaintive trills
Their homely sorrows, else untold.
How gaunt and strange, grotesque, yet beautiful,
These folk-tunes of a brooding race,
Wild flowers of fancy one might cull
From dwellers in some lone untravelled place,
Where the old world lives through long slowmoving days,
Keeping its old-world ways,
These themes a Craftsman rude has bound
In one fantastic rhapsody of sound!
These folk-tunes of a brooding race,
Wild flowers of fancy one might cull
From dwellers in some lone untravelled place,
Where the old world lives through long slowmoving days,
Keeping its old-world ways,
These themes a Craftsman rude has bound
In one fantastic rhapsody of sound!
O tell me what forgotten tale,
What village tale of tragic sorrow,
Breathes in the strings' reiterated wail,
Dying slow in long-drawn sighs,
As the wind's gusty lamentation dies—
Outwearied with lone sorrow dies!
What village tale of tragic sorrow,
Breathes in the strings' reiterated wail,
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As the wind's gusty lamentation dies—
Outwearied with lone sorrow dies!
Tell me why, skipping suddenly in,
With change abrupt, that freaksome strain,
With its mirth remote and thin
Has now possest the violin?
The notes flit lightly by, as though
Airy elves untouched by pain,
Heartless things that ne'er could know
Mortal joy or mortal woe,
Bent upon their impish pleasure,
Came tripping here their alien measure:
And then that dolorous wail is heard again.
With change abrupt, that freaksome strain,
With its mirth remote and thin
Has now possest the violin?
The notes flit lightly by, as though
Airy elves untouched by pain,
Heartless things that ne'er could know
Mortal joy or mortal woe,
Bent upon their impish pleasure,
Came tripping here their alien measure:
And then that dolorous wail is heard again.
Is it a dirge some poor soul sings,
Left by a grave alone,
While in a funeral march, with muted strings
Viol and violin moan?
Scarce has that requiem sobbed out its last sigh
Ere village youths and maids come dancing by,
Now fast, now slow, pausing, delaying
At their will, like folk amaying,
Until, as fast and faster feet are flying,
The insistent march comes back, more dolorously sighing;
And whirled along as in a storm
The themes, like birds with songs changing their form
To suit the season's weather,
Now clamour all together,
Now cry alternately alone,
As joy and grief make antiphone.
Left by a grave alone,
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Viol and violin moan?
Scarce has that requiem sobbed out its last sigh
Ere village youths and maids come dancing by,
Now fast, now slow, pausing, delaying
At their will, like folk amaying,
Until, as fast and faster feet are flying,
The insistent march comes back, more dolorously sighing;
And whirled along as in a storm
The themes, like birds with songs changing their form
To suit the season's weather,
Now clamour all together,
Now cry alternately alone,
As joy and grief make antiphone.
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And still, as fleeting visions pass
Within a wizard's glass,
Ever the fitful music sweeps
From grave to gay, from gay to grave,
Now tenderly complains, now seems to rave
In reckless joy, and now to sound the deeps
Of love's voluptuous melancholy;
And, as the lover plays with his own folly,
Toys with each tune, till grief smiles and joy weeps;
Then, like a wild thing roused from brief repose,
It leaps to a sudden close.
And all the Craftsman's uncouth art has bound
In one fantastic rhapsody of many-coloured sound.
Within a wizard's glass,
Ever the fitful music sweeps
From grave to gay, from gay to grave,
Now tenderly complains, now seems to rave
In reckless joy, and now to sound the deeps
Of love's voluptuous melancholy;
And, as the lover plays with his own folly,
Toys with each tune, till grief smiles and joy weeps;
Then, like a wild thing roused from brief repose,
It leaps to a sudden close.
And all the Craftsman's uncouth art has bound
In one fantastic rhapsody of many-coloured sound.
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