The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 47

Forget, forget,-- And if thou hast been weeping, Let go the thoughts that bind thee to thy grief: Lie still, and watch the singing angels, reaping The golden harvest of thy sorrow, sheaf by sheaf; Or count thy joys like flocks of snow-white sheep That one by one come creeping Into the quiet fold, until thou sleep, And so forget, forget!

Forget, forget,-- Thou art a child and knowest So little of thy life! But music tells The secret of the world through which thou goest To work with morning song, to rest with evening bells: Life is in tune with harmony so deep That when the notes are lowest Thou still canst lay thee down in peace and sleep, For G.o.d will not forget.

V

HUNTING SONG

Out of the garden of playtime, out of the bower of rest, Fain would I follow at daytime, music that calls to a quest.

Hark, how the galloping measure Quickens the pulses of pleasure; Gaily saluting the morn With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, Echoing up from the valley, Over the mountain side,-- Rally, you hunters, rally, Rally, and ride!

Drink of the magical potion music has mixed with her wine, Full of the madness of motion, joyful, exultant, divine!

Leave all your troubles behind you, Ride where they never can find you, Into the gladness of morn, With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, Swiftly o'er hillock and hollow, Sweeping along with the wind,-- Follow, you hunters, follow, Follow and find!

What will you reach with your riding? What is the charm of the chase?

Just the delight and the striding swing of the jubilant pace.

Danger is sweet when you front her,-- In at the death, every hunter!

Now on the breeze the mort is borne In the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, Winding merrily, over and over,-- Come, come, come!

Home again, Ranger! home again, Rover!

Turn again, home!

VI

DANCE-MUSIC

1

Now let the sleep-tune blend with the play-tune, Weaving the mystical spell of the dance; Lighten the deep tune, soften the gay tune, Mingle a tempo that turns in a trance.

Half of it sighing, half of it smiling, Smoothly it swings, with a triplicate beat; Calling, replying, yearning, beguiling, Wooing the heart and bewitching the feet.

Every drop of blood Rises with the flood, Rocking on the waves of the strain; Youth and beauty glide Turning with the tide-- Music making one out of twain, Bearing them away, and away, and away, Like a tone and its terce-- Till the chord dissolves, and the dancers stay, And reverse.

Violins leading, take up the measure, Turn with the tune again,--clarinets clear Answer their pleading,--harps full of pleasure Sprinkle their silver like light on the mere.

Semiquaver notes, Merry little motes, Tangled in the haze Of the lamp's golden rays, Quiver everywhere In the air, Like a spray,-- Till the fuller stream of the might of the tune, Gliding like a dream in the light of the moon, Bears them all away, and away, and away, Floating in the trance of the dance.

2

Then begins a measure stately, Languid, slow, serene; All the dancers move sedately, Stepping leisurely and straitly, With a courtly mien; Crossing hands and changing places, Bowing low between, While the minuet inlaces Waving arms and woven paces,-- Glittering damaskeen.

Where is she whose form is folden In its royal sheen?

From our longing eyes withholden By her mystic girdle golden, Beauty sought but never seen, Music walks the maze, a queen.

VII

WAR-MUSIC

Break off! Dance no more!

Danger is at the door.

Music is in arms.

To signal war's alarms.

Hark, a sudden trumpet calling Over the hill!

Why are you calling, trumpet, calling?

What is your will?

Men, men, men!

Men who are ready to fight For their country's life, and the right Of a liberty-loving land to be Free, free, free!

Free from a tyrant's chain, Free from dishonor's stain, Free to guard and maintain All that her fathers fought for, All that her sons have wrought for, Resolute, brave, and free!

Call again, trumpet, call again, Call up the men!

Do you hear the storm of cheers Mingled with the women's tears And the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching feet?

Do you hear the throbbing drum As the hosts of battle come Keeping time, time, time to its beat?

O Music give a song To make their spirit strong For the fury of the tempest they must meet.

The hoa.r.s.e roar Of the monster guns; And the sharp bark Of the lesser guns; The whine of the sh.e.l.ls, The rifles' clatter Where the bullets patter, The rattle, rattle, rattle Of the mitrailleuse in battle, And the yells Of the men who charge through h.e.l.ls Where the poison gas descends, And the bursting shrapnel rends Limb from limb In the dim Chaos and clamor of the strife Where no man thinks of his life But only of fighting through, Blindly fighting through, through!

'Tis done At last!

The victory won, The dissonance of warfare past!

O Music mourn the dead Whose loyal blood was shed, And sound the taps for every hero slain; Then lead into the song That made their spirit strong, And tell the world they did not die in vain.

Thank G.o.d we can see, in the glory of morn, The invincible flag that our fathers defended; And our hearts can repeat what the heroes have sworn, That war shall not end till the war-l.u.s.t is ended.

Then the bloodthirsty sword shall no longer be lord Of the nations oppressed by the conqueror's horde, But the banners of Liberty proudly shall wave O'er the _world_ of the free and the lands of the brave.

May, 1916.

VIII

THE SYMPHONY

Music, they do thee wrong who say thine art Is only to enchant the sense.

For every timid motion of the heart, And every pa.s.sion too intense To bear the chain of the imperfect word, And every tremulous longing, stirred By spirit winds that come we know not whence And go we know not where, And every inarticulate prayer Beating about the depths of pain or bliss, Like some bewildered bird That seeks its nest but knows not where it is, And every dream that haunts, with dim delight, The drowsy hour between the day and night, The wakeful hour between the night and day,-- Imprisoned, waits for thee, Impatient, yearns for thee, The queen who comes to set the captive free!

Thou lendest wings to grief to fly away, And wings to joy to reach a heavenly height; And every dumb desire that storms within the breast Thou leadest forth to sob or sing itself to rest.

All these are thine, and therefore love is thine.

For love is joy and grief, And trembling doubt, and certain-sure belief, And fear, and hope, and longing unexpressed, In pain most human, and in rapture brief Almost divine.

Love would possess, yet deepens when denied; And love would give, yet hungers to receive; Love like a prince his triumph would achieve; And like a miser in the dark his joys would hide.

Love is most bold, He leads his dreams like armed men in line; Yet when the siege is set, and he must speak, Calling the fortress to resign Its treasure, valiant love grows weak, And hardly dares his purpose to unfold.

Less with his faltering lips than with his eyes He claims the longed-for prize: Love fain would tell it all, yet leaves the best untold.

But thou shalt speak for love. Yea, thou shalt teach The mystery of measured tone, The Pentecostal speech That every listener heareth as his own.

For on thy head the cloven tongues of fire,-- Diminished chords that quiver with desire, And major chords that glow with perfect peace,-- Have fallen from above; And thou canst give release In music to the burdened heart of love.

Sound with the 'cellos' pleading, pa.s.sionate strain The yearning theme, and let the flute reply In placid melody, while violins complain, And sob, and sigh, With muted string; Then let the oboe half-reluctant sing Of bliss that trembles on the verge of pain, While 'cellos plead and plead again, With throbbing notes delayed, that would impart To every urgent tone the beating of the heart.

So runs the andante, making plain The hopes and fears of love without a word.