Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems Part 27

II.

Ah, thou unhappy stone, Make now thy sorrows known; Make known thy longing.

Thou art the form of one Whom I, with hopes undone, Buried at set of sun,-- All the friends thronging.

III.

Thou art some Vision bright Lost out of Heaven at night, Far from thy race.

Oft when the others dance, Come I, with wistful glance, Fearful lest thou, perchance, Leave the dark place.

IV.

No! thou wilt never flee, Earth has a charm for thee;-- Why should we sever?

Years have I seen thee so, Making pretence to go, Lifting thine arms of snow,-- Voiceless for ever!

V.

Here bring I all my cares, Here dream and say my prayers While the bells toll.

O thou beloved saint!

Let not my courage faint, Let not a shame, or taint, Injure my soul!

PABLO DE SARASATE.

I.

Who comes, to-day, with sunlight on his face, And eyes of fire, that have a sorrow's trace, But are not sad with sadness of the years, Or hints of tears?

II.

He is a king, or I mistake the sign, A king of song,--a comrade of the Nine,-- The Muses' brother, and their youngest one, This side the sun.

III.

See how he bends to greet his soul's desire, His violin, which trembles like a lyre, And seems to trust him, and to know his touch, Belov'd so much!

IV.

He stands full height; he draws it to his breast, Like one, in joy, who takes a wonder-guest,-- A weird, wild thing, bewitched from end to end,-- To be his friend.

V.

And who can doubt the right it has to lie So near his heart, and there to sob and sigh, And there to shake its octaves into notes With bird-like throats.

VI.

Ah! see how deftly, with his lifted bow, He strikes the chords of ecstasy and woe, And wakes the wailing of the sprite within That knows not sin.

VII.

A thousand heads are turn'd to where he stands, A thousand hopes are moulded to his hands, And, like a storm-wind hurrying from the north, A shout breaks forth.

VIII.

It is the welcome that of old was given To Paganini ere he join'd in Heaven The angel-choirs of those who serve aright The G.o.d of Light.

IX.

It is the large, loud utterance of a throng That loves a faith-employ'd, impa.s.sion'd song; A song that soothes the heart, and makes it sad,-- Yet keeps us glad.

X.

For look! how bearded men and women fair Shed tears and smile, and half repeat a prayer And half are shamed in their so mean estate, And he so great!

XI.

This is the young Endymion out of Spain Who, laurel-crown'd, has come to us again To re-intone the songs of other times In far-off climes.

XII.

To prove again that Music, by the plea Of all men's love, has link'd from sea to sea All sh.o.r.es of earth in one serene and grand Symphonic land.

XIII.

Oh! hush the while! Oh! hush! A bird has sung A Mayday bird has trill'd without a tongue, And now, 'twould seem, has wandered out of sight For sheer delight.

XIV.

A phantom bird! 'Tis gone where all things go-- The wind, the rain, the sunshine, and the snow, The hopes we nurs'd, the dead things lately pa.s.s'd-- All dreams at last.