How fiercely then did Haydn’s music storm!And soon he would have left our home in haste:My father spoke to stay him. Long they spoke;And sometimes wrathful were the words they used.But then, at last, my father told him all,—Why I had vow’d, that I his life might save,And he broke down before it.Never moreMay God permit me to behold againA broken man! Alas, how pleaded he!And pray’d me for my pardon o’er and o’er,Till wellnigh I believed he heard me not;And in the end sigh’d out: “It might be so,My plan be wisest; nay, he would not yieldHis manlier judgment, to fulfil my wish,To make me happy, or my sire or me:—Doretta surely was a housewife wise:It seem’d the older custom, thus to wed:He young had been, had whims.—God bless us all.”
How fiercely then did Haydn’s music storm!And soon he would have left our home in haste:My father spoke to stay him. Long they spoke;And sometimes wrathful were the words they used.But then, at last, my father told him all,—Why I had vow’d, that I his life might save,And he broke down before it.Never moreMay God permit me to behold againA broken man! Alas, how pleaded he!And pray’d me for my pardon o’er and o’er,Till wellnigh I believed he heard me not;And in the end sigh’d out: “It might be so,My plan be wisest; nay, he would not yieldHis manlier judgment, to fulfil my wish,To make me happy, or my sire or me:—Doretta surely was a housewife wise:It seem’d the older custom, thus to wed:He young had been, had whims.—God bless us all.”
How fiercely then did Haydn’s music storm!And soon he would have left our home in haste:My father spoke to stay him. Long they spoke;And sometimes wrathful were the words they used.But then, at last, my father told him all,—Why I had vow’d, that I his life might save,And he broke down before it.Never moreMay God permit me to behold againA broken man! Alas, how pleaded he!And pray’d me for my pardon o’er and o’er,Till wellnigh I believed he heard me not;And in the end sigh’d out: “It might be so,My plan be wisest; nay, he would not yieldHis manlier judgment, to fulfil my wish,To make me happy, or my sire or me:—Doretta surely was a housewife wise:It seem’d the older custom, thus to wed:He young had been, had whims.—God bless us all.”
How fiercely then did Haydn’s music storm!
And soon he would have left our home in haste:
My father spoke to stay him. Long they spoke;
And sometimes wrathful were the words they used.
But then, at last, my father told him all,—
Why I had vow’d, that I his life might save,
And he broke down before it.
Never more
May God permit me to behold again
A broken man! Alas, how pleaded he!
And pray’d me for my pardon o’er and o’er,
Till wellnigh I believed he heard me not;
And in the end sigh’d out: “It might be so,
My plan be wisest; nay, he would not yield
His manlier judgment, to fulfil my wish,
To make me happy, or my sire or me:—
Doretta surely was a housewife wise:
It seem’d the older custom, thus to wed:
He young had been, had whims.—God bless us all.”
Oft, after that, I urged him ne’er to wedOne whom he could not love. He only sigh’d:“This heart of mine that once loved you, Pauline,How could it love again with love as true?Yet what, if not? My soul was immature,Romantic, young. It must be manly now.A man has breadth. I take it manly loveIs love that yields most blessings to the most.And mine shall bless yourself, your father, her.”—And so he calm’d my doubt and cheer’d me much.
Oft, after that, I urged him ne’er to wedOne whom he could not love. He only sigh’d:“This heart of mine that once loved you, Pauline,How could it love again with love as true?Yet what, if not? My soul was immature,Romantic, young. It must be manly now.A man has breadth. I take it manly loveIs love that yields most blessings to the most.And mine shall bless yourself, your father, her.”—And so he calm’d my doubt and cheer’d me much.
Oft, after that, I urged him ne’er to wedOne whom he could not love. He only sigh’d:“This heart of mine that once loved you, Pauline,How could it love again with love as true?Yet what, if not? My soul was immature,Romantic, young. It must be manly now.A man has breadth. I take it manly loveIs love that yields most blessings to the most.And mine shall bless yourself, your father, her.”—And so he calm’d my doubt and cheer’d me much.
Oft, after that, I urged him ne’er to wed
One whom he could not love. He only sigh’d:
“This heart of mine that once loved you, Pauline,
How could it love again with love as true?
Yet what, if not? My soul was immature,
Romantic, young. It must be manly now.
A man has breadth. I take it manly love
Is love that yields most blessings to the most.
And mine shall bless yourself, your father, her.”—
And so he calm’d my doubt and cheer’d me much.
And oft I spoke with him about the Church.“Can I forget its holding you?” he ask’d.“Ah, Haydn,” said I, “I remember onceWhen young you were, when music scarce had luredYour soul, so thrill’d! to test its energies:Then Gluck your master was; you follow’d him,And far beyond your own, as then you deem’d,Flowed forth the full perfection of his chords.Now men see Gluck behind you. Yet, e’en now,Before you still, sweet chords allure you on.Ah, friend, Gluck only happen’d in the pathThat open’d then beyond you. But those chords?—Those you can reach not, Haydn, till you reachThe choirs of heaven!“And thus, at times, I thinkThat I too may have happen’d in your path;And this, your love, now looking toward myself,May gaze, when I am gone, on holier things,Ideal all.”“When you—alas,” he sigh’d,“When you are gone, then life will all become—I fear it much—one lonely wail for you.”“And yet a lonely wail, breathed forth,” I said,“From one with spirit sweeten’d, sweet may seemTo earth that hears it.”“Ah, I take the thought,You mean my music,” answer’d he. “O God,To save one’s art must love be sacrificed?—Redeem’d at that price, art would be too dear!”
And oft I spoke with him about the Church.“Can I forget its holding you?” he ask’d.“Ah, Haydn,” said I, “I remember onceWhen young you were, when music scarce had luredYour soul, so thrill’d! to test its energies:Then Gluck your master was; you follow’d him,And far beyond your own, as then you deem’d,Flowed forth the full perfection of his chords.Now men see Gluck behind you. Yet, e’en now,Before you still, sweet chords allure you on.Ah, friend, Gluck only happen’d in the pathThat open’d then beyond you. But those chords?—Those you can reach not, Haydn, till you reachThe choirs of heaven!“And thus, at times, I thinkThat I too may have happen’d in your path;And this, your love, now looking toward myself,May gaze, when I am gone, on holier things,Ideal all.”“When you—alas,” he sigh’d,“When you are gone, then life will all become—I fear it much—one lonely wail for you.”“And yet a lonely wail, breathed forth,” I said,“From one with spirit sweeten’d, sweet may seemTo earth that hears it.”“Ah, I take the thought,You mean my music,” answer’d he. “O God,To save one’s art must love be sacrificed?—Redeem’d at that price, art would be too dear!”
And oft I spoke with him about the Church.“Can I forget its holding you?” he ask’d.
And oft I spoke with him about the Church.
“Can I forget its holding you?” he ask’d.
“Ah, Haydn,” said I, “I remember onceWhen young you were, when music scarce had luredYour soul, so thrill’d! to test its energies:Then Gluck your master was; you follow’d him,And far beyond your own, as then you deem’d,Flowed forth the full perfection of his chords.Now men see Gluck behind you. Yet, e’en now,Before you still, sweet chords allure you on.Ah, friend, Gluck only happen’d in the pathThat open’d then beyond you. But those chords?—Those you can reach not, Haydn, till you reachThe choirs of heaven!“And thus, at times, I thinkThat I too may have happen’d in your path;And this, your love, now looking toward myself,May gaze, when I am gone, on holier things,Ideal all.”“When you—alas,” he sigh’d,“When you are gone, then life will all become—I fear it much—one lonely wail for you.”
“Ah, Haydn,” said I, “I remember once
When young you were, when music scarce had lured
Your soul, so thrill’d! to test its energies:
Then Gluck your master was; you follow’d him,
And far beyond your own, as then you deem’d,
Flowed forth the full perfection of his chords.
Now men see Gluck behind you. Yet, e’en now,
Before you still, sweet chords allure you on.
Ah, friend, Gluck only happen’d in the path
That open’d then beyond you. But those chords?—
Those you can reach not, Haydn, till you reach
The choirs of heaven!
“And thus, at times, I think
That I too may have happen’d in your path;
And this, your love, now looking toward myself,
May gaze, when I am gone, on holier things,
Ideal all.”
“When you—alas,” he sigh’d,
“When you are gone, then life will all become—
I fear it much—one lonely wail for you.”
“And yet a lonely wail, breathed forth,” I said,“From one with spirit sweeten’d, sweet may seemTo earth that hears it.”“Ah, I take the thought,You mean my music,” answer’d he. “O God,To save one’s art must love be sacrificed?—Redeem’d at that price, art would be too dear!”
“And yet a lonely wail, breathed forth,” I said,
“From one with spirit sweeten’d, sweet may seem
To earth that hears it.”
“Ah, I take the thought,
You mean my music,” answer’d he. “O God,
To save one’s art must love be sacrificed?—
Redeem’d at that price, art would be too dear!”
One thing he promis’d me. I urged it much.“In secret convent-prayers,” I said to him,“My soul must know if it should praise or plead.A year from now, we two must meet once more.We cannot talk, and yet we may communeWhile I stand silent at the cloister bars.Then if your wedded life afford you joy—I doubt it not,—bring with you fresh-pluck’d flowers;If else than this, bring but the wilted stemsOf these I give you now.”Then soon had pass’dThe last vague hours that saw me part from all.I stood before the shrine. I feel it yet:—The organ moaning sweetly far away;The people whispering low amid the aisles;My heart so loud, nor hush’d in sermon-time;The multitude with wide eyes fix’d on me;Doretta, and my father, still and sad;And Haydn’s face upon his pale, pale hands.
One thing he promis’d me. I urged it much.“In secret convent-prayers,” I said to him,“My soul must know if it should praise or plead.A year from now, we two must meet once more.We cannot talk, and yet we may communeWhile I stand silent at the cloister bars.Then if your wedded life afford you joy—I doubt it not,—bring with you fresh-pluck’d flowers;If else than this, bring but the wilted stemsOf these I give you now.”Then soon had pass’dThe last vague hours that saw me part from all.I stood before the shrine. I feel it yet:—The organ moaning sweetly far away;The people whispering low amid the aisles;My heart so loud, nor hush’d in sermon-time;The multitude with wide eyes fix’d on me;Doretta, and my father, still and sad;And Haydn’s face upon his pale, pale hands.
One thing he promis’d me. I urged it much.“In secret convent-prayers,” I said to him,“My soul must know if it should praise or plead.A year from now, we two must meet once more.We cannot talk, and yet we may communeWhile I stand silent at the cloister bars.Then if your wedded life afford you joy—I doubt it not,—bring with you fresh-pluck’d flowers;If else than this, bring but the wilted stemsOf these I give you now.”Then soon had pass’dThe last vague hours that saw me part from all.I stood before the shrine. I feel it yet:—The organ moaning sweetly far away;The people whispering low amid the aisles;My heart so loud, nor hush’d in sermon-time;The multitude with wide eyes fix’d on me;Doretta, and my father, still and sad;And Haydn’s face upon his pale, pale hands.
One thing he promis’d me. I urged it much.
“In secret convent-prayers,” I said to him,
“My soul must know if it should praise or plead.
A year from now, we two must meet once more.
We cannot talk, and yet we may commune
While I stand silent at the cloister bars.
Then if your wedded life afford you joy—
I doubt it not,—bring with you fresh-pluck’d flowers;
If else than this, bring but the wilted stems
Of these I give you now.”
Then soon had pass’d
The last vague hours that saw me part from all.
I stood before the shrine. I feel it yet:—
The organ moaning sweetly far away;
The people whispering low amid the aisles;
My heart so loud, nor hush’d in sermon-time;
The multitude with wide eyes fix’d on me;
Doretta, and my father, still and sad;
And Haydn’s face upon his pale, pale hands.
And two months after that I saw them wed,My Haydn and Doretta, in the church.And, since then, I have pray’d for him long days,And longer nights; and I have oft had hopesThat my faint life new strength would gain from God.But now so white, so thin, my body seems,With scarce enough of substance left in itTo be a ghost;—ah, what if, like a ghost,It soon should vanish?So I thought, to-night,If I could tell you this, confess my fault,Unload my heart of all her sweet, sad love,That God might give me rest. I did not, nay,I did not mean it, to excite myself.They told me it might bring my death; but oh!Have I not borne enough to merit life?How had I counted all these weeks and days,Up to the hour we two should meet again,And I should find how all my prayers were heard,And heaven had made my Haydn blest!—He came,Last week: and what, what, think you, can it mean?—He brought the wilted stems.—I do not know.I only know that I can earn no rest:And all our household so much else have earn’d.And now how can I?—I can try no more;But all my pathway has been block’d for me.They say such words are infidelity,—O Christ!—yet I can try no more.Hark! hark!—Is not that Haydn’s hymn we hear again?—How faint it sounds!—or I, I faint may be.The window—move me. There—look out—those clouds—The sunset?—Ah, what comes on earth so bright,So beautiful as clouds?—There were no cloudsWhere one could always look and see the heaven.The music, hear it—hear how sweet!—Say, say,Did I sing then?—Not so?—and only dream’d?—I thought that music mine, and then myself;And Haydn’s heart, it beat here, beat in me,—Ah me, so tired!—Yes, let me rest on you.O God, for but one hour to live!—For what?Have I not loved then?—Yes, and tell him so,Tell Haydn; thank him.—God, praise Him for it.Life, life—I did not know it—has been sweet.—Hark! music!—Does it not come from above?
And two months after that I saw them wed,My Haydn and Doretta, in the church.And, since then, I have pray’d for him long days,And longer nights; and I have oft had hopesThat my faint life new strength would gain from God.But now so white, so thin, my body seems,With scarce enough of substance left in itTo be a ghost;—ah, what if, like a ghost,It soon should vanish?So I thought, to-night,If I could tell you this, confess my fault,Unload my heart of all her sweet, sad love,That God might give me rest. I did not, nay,I did not mean it, to excite myself.They told me it might bring my death; but oh!Have I not borne enough to merit life?How had I counted all these weeks and days,Up to the hour we two should meet again,And I should find how all my prayers were heard,And heaven had made my Haydn blest!—He came,Last week: and what, what, think you, can it mean?—He brought the wilted stems.—I do not know.I only know that I can earn no rest:And all our household so much else have earn’d.And now how can I?—I can try no more;But all my pathway has been block’d for me.They say such words are infidelity,—O Christ!—yet I can try no more.Hark! hark!—Is not that Haydn’s hymn we hear again?—How faint it sounds!—or I, I faint may be.The window—move me. There—look out—those clouds—The sunset?—Ah, what comes on earth so bright,So beautiful as clouds?—There were no cloudsWhere one could always look and see the heaven.The music, hear it—hear how sweet!—Say, say,Did I sing then?—Not so?—and only dream’d?—I thought that music mine, and then myself;And Haydn’s heart, it beat here, beat in me,—Ah me, so tired!—Yes, let me rest on you.O God, for but one hour to live!—For what?Have I not loved then?—Yes, and tell him so,Tell Haydn; thank him.—God, praise Him for it.Life, life—I did not know it—has been sweet.—Hark! music!—Does it not come from above?
And two months after that I saw them wed,My Haydn and Doretta, in the church.And, since then, I have pray’d for him long days,And longer nights; and I have oft had hopesThat my faint life new strength would gain from God.But now so white, so thin, my body seems,With scarce enough of substance left in itTo be a ghost;—ah, what if, like a ghost,It soon should vanish?So I thought, to-night,If I could tell you this, confess my fault,Unload my heart of all her sweet, sad love,That God might give me rest. I did not, nay,I did not mean it, to excite myself.They told me it might bring my death; but oh!Have I not borne enough to merit life?How had I counted all these weeks and days,Up to the hour we two should meet again,And I should find how all my prayers were heard,And heaven had made my Haydn blest!—He came,Last week: and what, what, think you, can it mean?—He brought the wilted stems.—I do not know.I only know that I can earn no rest:And all our household so much else have earn’d.And now how can I?—I can try no more;But all my pathway has been block’d for me.They say such words are infidelity,—O Christ!—yet I can try no more.Hark! hark!—Is not that Haydn’s hymn we hear again?—How faint it sounds!—or I, I faint may be.The window—move me. There—look out—those clouds—The sunset?—Ah, what comes on earth so bright,So beautiful as clouds?—There were no cloudsWhere one could always look and see the heaven.The music, hear it—hear how sweet!—Say, say,Did I sing then?—Not so?—and only dream’d?—I thought that music mine, and then myself;And Haydn’s heart, it beat here, beat in me,—Ah me, so tired!—Yes, let me rest on you.O God, for but one hour to live!—For what?Have I not loved then?—Yes, and tell him so,Tell Haydn; thank him.—God, praise Him for it.Life, life—I did not know it—has been sweet.—Hark! music!—Does it not come from above?
And two months after that I saw them wed,
My Haydn and Doretta, in the church.
And, since then, I have pray’d for him long days,
And longer nights; and I have oft had hopes
That my faint life new strength would gain from God.
But now so white, so thin, my body seems,
With scarce enough of substance left in it
To be a ghost;—ah, what if, like a ghost,
It soon should vanish?
So I thought, to-night,
If I could tell you this, confess my fault,
Unload my heart of all her sweet, sad love,
That God might give me rest. I did not, nay,
I did not mean it, to excite myself.
They told me it might bring my death; but oh!
Have I not borne enough to merit life?
How had I counted all these weeks and days,
Up to the hour we two should meet again,
And I should find how all my prayers were heard,
And heaven had made my Haydn blest!—
He came,
Last week: and what, what, think you, can it mean?—
He brought the wilted stems.—
I do not know.
I only know that I can earn no rest:
And all our household so much else have earn’d.
And now how can I?—I can try no more;
But all my pathway has been block’d for me.
They say such words are infidelity,—
O Christ!—yet I can try no more.
Hark! hark!—
Is not that Haydn’s hymn we hear again?—
How faint it sounds!—or I, I faint may be.
The window—move me. There—look out—those clouds—
The sunset?—Ah, what comes on earth so bright,
So beautiful as clouds?—There were no clouds
Where one could always look and see the heaven.
The music, hear it—hear how sweet!—Say, say,
Did I sing then?—Not so?—and only dream’d?—
I thought that music mine, and then myself;
And Haydn’s heart, it beat here, beat in me,—
Ah me, so tired!—Yes, let me rest on you.
O God, for but one hour to live!—For what?
Have I not loved then?—Yes, and tell him so,
Tell Haydn; thank him.—God, praise Him for it.
Life, life—I did not know it—has been sweet.—
Hark! music!—Does it not come from above?