MISCELLANEOUS.

A SUPPOSED IMPROMPTU.

The board is bare, the lights are low,My songs are sung, but, ere we go,One more I bring, and answer soYour kindly plaudits ringing.No wealth and rank belong to me,But yet, where thought and word are free,The voice alone a power may be,And rule the world by singing.How oft, of old, when reign’d the wrong,And rare and regal rose in song,The call sublime that roused the strongFrom hut and hamlet springing,Like avalanches launch’d in might,Where thunder shakes an Alpine height,Resistless down its path of white,Has right been led by singing.How oft, when sounds of war awoke,And wide as earth a vision brokeOf sword and gun in flash and smoke,And flags o’er freemen springing;Where few escaped the foeman’s power,As fail’d the chief and fell the tower,The land has yet survived the hourWhen nerved anew by singing.All else, at last, with death may meet,—Brave hearts whose hopes had made them beat,Like moats beneath the soldiers’ feet,When victory’s cheers are ringing;But e’en the dead whose deeds inspireThe minstrel, o’er the grave or pyreMay rise, like Israel’s cloud of fire,And lead their race through singing.Nor less the power of song, when peaceHas dawn’d apace, and hopes increase,As men in thrall have found release,Their fetters from them flinging.Oh, what could make their thanks complete,Did crowds exultant fail to meetIn great Town Hall, or village street,And shout their joy in singing!Or when sad souls the wine would quaffOf mirth brimm’d bubbling o’er with laugh,What sparkling draughts in their behalf,The comic bard comes bringing!And ever, round the social board,As full the foaming pledge is pour’d,See how good-will the heart could hoardIs lavish’d with the singing.How blest are homes, all fill’d with song,The mother’s hum, the choral strong,The hymn that bears great thoughts that throngWhere all pure hope is winging!How heaves the breast in air so sweet,How thrills the blood it fills to meet,While all the spirit bounds to greetThe joys of life in singing!There let sweet love a pair ensnareWith dainty dreams of visions fair,Wherein, like wings athrob the air,Rare wedding bells are ringing.Then, stirr’d by moods that move the heart,What tunes upon the lip will start,As if true love could not impartSuch sweets except through singing!The cares may come that track success,Or storms of swift and full distressMay make of life a wilderness,A flood of anguish bringing;The sorrows of the soul will rise,And pour their woe through weeping eyes,And drain at last the source of sighs,When hearts o’erflow in singing.If doubt and vice with cloud and tideSurround a wretch whose father’s prideAnd mother’s love have wellnigh died,And sister’s hands are wringing,Ah, then, beyond the waves that roar,He too may heed the friendly shore,Where others, won from woes before,Their heartfelt praise are singing.Through mists that, like a shroud around,In densest folds the soul had bound,My life has known a song to sound,Nerve dying hope by ringingAs clear as tolls a lighthouse bellWhere ghost-like rush the breakers fell—The soul they would have borne to hellWas warn’d from it by singing.A shadeless waste, a mist-hid sea,Were earth that knew no songs of glee;And what would heaven beyond it beIf anthems ne’er were springingFrom voices there, where funeral knellsAre sweeter far than marriage bellsTo love call’d hence that ever dwellsWithin the sound of singing!The wise who once thought heavenly spheres,As all unroll’d their store of years,Woke music through their atmospheresThat soft and far was ringing;Heard subtler music, it may be,Where love rules all, yet all are free,And though not thoughts, yet hearts agree,For all beat time in singing.Ah, when no lights of life remain,As dimly death’s cold draft we drain,How sweetly then will sound the strainFrom heaven through darkness winging,Where choirs above through endless yearsPraise love that ransoms all from fearsNor asks for aught, save what to seersAppears to be glad singing!But stay—to keep below with menThe minstrel knows not how nor when.Here end I then—yet once againLet echoes answer, ringingTo that which lulls the babe at birth,And voices all the good of earth,Gives God His glory, heaven its worth,—Eternal sway to singing!

The board is bare, the lights are low,

My songs are sung, but, ere we go,

One more I bring, and answer so

Your kindly plaudits ringing.

No wealth and rank belong to me,

But yet, where thought and word are free,

The voice alone a power may be,

And rule the world by singing.

How oft, of old, when reign’d the wrong,And rare and regal rose in song,The call sublime that roused the strongFrom hut and hamlet springing,Like avalanches launch’d in might,Where thunder shakes an Alpine height,Resistless down its path of white,Has right been led by singing.

How oft, of old, when reign’d the wrong,

And rare and regal rose in song,

The call sublime that roused the strong

From hut and hamlet springing,

Like avalanches launch’d in might,

Where thunder shakes an Alpine height,

Resistless down its path of white,

Has right been led by singing.

How oft, when sounds of war awoke,And wide as earth a vision brokeOf sword and gun in flash and smoke,And flags o’er freemen springing;Where few escaped the foeman’s power,As fail’d the chief and fell the tower,The land has yet survived the hourWhen nerved anew by singing.

How oft, when sounds of war awoke,

And wide as earth a vision broke

Of sword and gun in flash and smoke,

And flags o’er freemen springing;

Where few escaped the foeman’s power,

As fail’d the chief and fell the tower,

The land has yet survived the hour

When nerved anew by singing.

All else, at last, with death may meet,—Brave hearts whose hopes had made them beat,Like moats beneath the soldiers’ feet,When victory’s cheers are ringing;But e’en the dead whose deeds inspireThe minstrel, o’er the grave or pyreMay rise, like Israel’s cloud of fire,And lead their race through singing.

All else, at last, with death may meet,—

Brave hearts whose hopes had made them beat,

Like moats beneath the soldiers’ feet,

When victory’s cheers are ringing;

But e’en the dead whose deeds inspire

The minstrel, o’er the grave or pyre

May rise, like Israel’s cloud of fire,

And lead their race through singing.

Nor less the power of song, when peaceHas dawn’d apace, and hopes increase,As men in thrall have found release,Their fetters from them flinging.Oh, what could make their thanks complete,Did crowds exultant fail to meetIn great Town Hall, or village street,And shout their joy in singing!

Nor less the power of song, when peace

Has dawn’d apace, and hopes increase,

As men in thrall have found release,

Their fetters from them flinging.

Oh, what could make their thanks complete,

Did crowds exultant fail to meet

In great Town Hall, or village street,

And shout their joy in singing!

Or when sad souls the wine would quaffOf mirth brimm’d bubbling o’er with laugh,What sparkling draughts in their behalf,The comic bard comes bringing!And ever, round the social board,As full the foaming pledge is pour’d,See how good-will the heart could hoardIs lavish’d with the singing.

Or when sad souls the wine would quaff

Of mirth brimm’d bubbling o’er with laugh,

What sparkling draughts in their behalf,

The comic bard comes bringing!

And ever, round the social board,

As full the foaming pledge is pour’d,

See how good-will the heart could hoard

Is lavish’d with the singing.

How blest are homes, all fill’d with song,The mother’s hum, the choral strong,The hymn that bears great thoughts that throngWhere all pure hope is winging!How heaves the breast in air so sweet,How thrills the blood it fills to meet,While all the spirit bounds to greetThe joys of life in singing!

How blest are homes, all fill’d with song,

The mother’s hum, the choral strong,

The hymn that bears great thoughts that throng

Where all pure hope is winging!

How heaves the breast in air so sweet,

How thrills the blood it fills to meet,

While all the spirit bounds to greet

The joys of life in singing!

There let sweet love a pair ensnareWith dainty dreams of visions fair,Wherein, like wings athrob the air,Rare wedding bells are ringing.Then, stirr’d by moods that move the heart,What tunes upon the lip will start,As if true love could not impartSuch sweets except through singing!

There let sweet love a pair ensnare

With dainty dreams of visions fair,

Wherein, like wings athrob the air,

Rare wedding bells are ringing.

Then, stirr’d by moods that move the heart,

What tunes upon the lip will start,

As if true love could not impart

Such sweets except through singing!

The cares may come that track success,Or storms of swift and full distressMay make of life a wilderness,A flood of anguish bringing;The sorrows of the soul will rise,And pour their woe through weeping eyes,And drain at last the source of sighs,When hearts o’erflow in singing.

The cares may come that track success,

Or storms of swift and full distress

May make of life a wilderness,

A flood of anguish bringing;

The sorrows of the soul will rise,

And pour their woe through weeping eyes,

And drain at last the source of sighs,

When hearts o’erflow in singing.

If doubt and vice with cloud and tideSurround a wretch whose father’s prideAnd mother’s love have wellnigh died,And sister’s hands are wringing,Ah, then, beyond the waves that roar,He too may heed the friendly shore,Where others, won from woes before,Their heartfelt praise are singing.

If doubt and vice with cloud and tide

Surround a wretch whose father’s pride

And mother’s love have wellnigh died,

And sister’s hands are wringing,

Ah, then, beyond the waves that roar,

He too may heed the friendly shore,

Where others, won from woes before,

Their heartfelt praise are singing.

Through mists that, like a shroud around,In densest folds the soul had bound,My life has known a song to sound,Nerve dying hope by ringingAs clear as tolls a lighthouse bellWhere ghost-like rush the breakers fell—The soul they would have borne to hellWas warn’d from it by singing.

Through mists that, like a shroud around,

In densest folds the soul had bound,

My life has known a song to sound,

Nerve dying hope by ringing

As clear as tolls a lighthouse bell

Where ghost-like rush the breakers fell—

The soul they would have borne to hell

Was warn’d from it by singing.

A shadeless waste, a mist-hid sea,Were earth that knew no songs of glee;And what would heaven beyond it beIf anthems ne’er were springingFrom voices there, where funeral knellsAre sweeter far than marriage bellsTo love call’d hence that ever dwellsWithin the sound of singing!

A shadeless waste, a mist-hid sea,

Were earth that knew no songs of glee;

And what would heaven beyond it be

If anthems ne’er were springing

From voices there, where funeral knells

Are sweeter far than marriage bells

To love call’d hence that ever dwells

Within the sound of singing!

The wise who once thought heavenly spheres,As all unroll’d their store of years,Woke music through their atmospheresThat soft and far was ringing;Heard subtler music, it may be,Where love rules all, yet all are free,And though not thoughts, yet hearts agree,For all beat time in singing.

The wise who once thought heavenly spheres,

As all unroll’d their store of years,

Woke music through their atmospheres

That soft and far was ringing;

Heard subtler music, it may be,

Where love rules all, yet all are free,

And though not thoughts, yet hearts agree,

For all beat time in singing.

Ah, when no lights of life remain,As dimly death’s cold draft we drain,How sweetly then will sound the strainFrom heaven through darkness winging,Where choirs above through endless yearsPraise love that ransoms all from fearsNor asks for aught, save what to seersAppears to be glad singing!

Ah, when no lights of life remain,

As dimly death’s cold draft we drain,

How sweetly then will sound the strain

From heaven through darkness winging,

Where choirs above through endless years

Praise love that ransoms all from fears

Nor asks for aught, save what to seers

Appears to be glad singing!

But stay—to keep below with menThe minstrel knows not how nor when.Here end I then—yet once againLet echoes answer, ringingTo that which lulls the babe at birth,And voices all the good of earth,Gives God His glory, heaven its worth,—Eternal sway to singing!

But stay—to keep below with men

The minstrel knows not how nor when.

Here end I then—yet once again

Let echoes answer, ringing

To that which lulls the babe at birth,

And voices all the good of earth,

Gives God His glory, heaven its worth,—

Eternal sway to singing!

Music round the world is ringing,Sweeter ne’er is heard by man;Music angel hosts were singing,Ere the morning stars began;Sweeter ’tis than dreams of music,Music one awakes to hearTrailing on a train of echoesO’er a mild and moonlit meer;More it moves than martial marches,More than gleams of long-lost hope,More than suns to glory liftingDew they draw from plain and slope;Music ’tis that thrills us onlyIn the art that hearts control,When the breath of ardor holySoftly stirs a sighing soul.Music in the breast is bringingEvery soul its own reward,Like the lute’s that tunes to singingOnly tones that with it chord.Let the heart devoid of pleasureThrob as throbs its rhythmic beat,Soon will joys that none can measureRound it and within it meet,—Joys without in those about it,Joys within, that pulsing come,Firm of tread as warriors marchingWhere before them rolls the drum;Known by inward senses only,Only known like bliss above,Life of life and order holy,Sounds the music soft of love.

Music round the world is ringing,

Sweeter ne’er is heard by man;

Music angel hosts were singing,

Ere the morning stars began;

Sweeter ’tis than dreams of music,

Music one awakes to hear

Trailing on a train of echoes

O’er a mild and moonlit meer;

More it moves than martial marches,

More than gleams of long-lost hope,

More than suns to glory lifting

Dew they draw from plain and slope;

Music ’tis that thrills us only

In the art that hearts control,

When the breath of ardor holy

Softly stirs a sighing soul.

Music in the breast is bringingEvery soul its own reward,Like the lute’s that tunes to singingOnly tones that with it chord.Let the heart devoid of pleasureThrob as throbs its rhythmic beat,Soon will joys that none can measureRound it and within it meet,—Joys without in those about it,Joys within, that pulsing come,Firm of tread as warriors marchingWhere before them rolls the drum;Known by inward senses only,Only known like bliss above,Life of life and order holy,Sounds the music soft of love.

Music in the breast is bringing

Every soul its own reward,

Like the lute’s that tunes to singing

Only tones that with it chord.

Let the heart devoid of pleasure

Throb as throbs its rhythmic beat,

Soon will joys that none can measure

Round it and within it meet,—

Joys without in those about it,

Joys within, that pulsing come,

Firm of tread as warriors marching

Where before them rolls the drum;

Known by inward senses only,

Only known like bliss above,

Life of life and order holy,

Sounds the music soft of love.

She came: she went: ’twas all a dream,A groundless hope, a barren scheme;And yet a dearer dream did seemThan ever made a dawn seem drear.She tuned sweet music in my breast,Till every sad or joyous guest,That sway’d it once, with wondering rest,Grew hush’d as hate when heaven is near.She came: she went: a beam sublimeThat, straying toward a sunless clime,Trembled along the edge of TimeAnd then in fright sped back amain.Ah, wherefore came she if to go!I had not known the half of woeHad I not felt that heavenly glow,And, match’d with it, found earth so vain.She came: she went: I know I dream’d;Nor dared to test fond hopes that gleam’d;But yet how dear the future seem’d,And, though it was the world, how real!Ah, wherefore did she leave so soon,And change to night what had been noon!Did Heaven sufficient deem the boonTo grant to me a form ideal?

She came: she went: ’twas all a dream,

A groundless hope, a barren scheme;

And yet a dearer dream did seem

Than ever made a dawn seem drear.

She tuned sweet music in my breast,

Till every sad or joyous guest,

That sway’d it once, with wondering rest,

Grew hush’d as hate when heaven is near.

She came: she went: a beam sublimeThat, straying toward a sunless clime,Trembled along the edge of TimeAnd then in fright sped back amain.Ah, wherefore came she if to go!I had not known the half of woeHad I not felt that heavenly glow,And, match’d with it, found earth so vain.

She came: she went: a beam sublime

That, straying toward a sunless clime,

Trembled along the edge of Time

And then in fright sped back amain.

Ah, wherefore came she if to go!

I had not known the half of woe

Had I not felt that heavenly glow,

And, match’d with it, found earth so vain.

She came: she went: I know I dream’d;Nor dared to test fond hopes that gleam’d;But yet how dear the future seem’d,And, though it was the world, how real!Ah, wherefore did she leave so soon,And change to night what had been noon!Did Heaven sufficient deem the boonTo grant to me a form ideal?

She came: she went: I know I dream’d;

Nor dared to test fond hopes that gleam’d;

But yet how dear the future seem’d,

And, though it was the world, how real!

Ah, wherefore did she leave so soon,

And change to night what had been noon!

Did Heaven sufficient deem the boon

To grant to me a form ideal?

Our jest and gossip ceased at last;It seem’d as if my lips were fast.Ah me, such holy hopes loom’d then;My mind could only think, “Amen.”But soon she cried out, “How absurd!”And laugh’d, whereat her little birdCaught up the music of the word,And trill’d an echo, loud and long,Till, deafen’d quite, she check’d the song.“That bird,” said she,—“Hush, hush, you thing!—Flew in the window here, one spring.We caught and caged him, and he grewThe sweetest pet that ever flew;I hold my finger toward him so,And down he flies and lights, you know,And pecks my hair and lips, and oh,How jauntily—you ought to see—He perks his head and chirps for me!“Last year, he flew away, one day,And then, the scene we had! the wayWe wept for him; and search’d the town!And how it made the neighbors frownThe twentieth time we ask’d for him!But, just as day was growing dim,He lit on yonder ash-tree limb;And ‘Dick,’ I call’d, and back he flew;Now, didn’t you, birdie?—naughty you!”With this again she laugh’d at him;And I,—I thought the room grew dim;And then, I whisper’d: “Dear, a word,—For I—I know one other birdThat longs and longs to fly to you;And, dearest, you may cage it, too;’Twill sing, and serve, and be so true.”And then she blush’d, and then she wept,And then this bird of love she kept.

Our jest and gossip ceased at last;

It seem’d as if my lips were fast.

Ah me, such holy hopes loom’d then;

My mind could only think, “Amen.”

But soon she cried out, “How absurd!”

And laugh’d, whereat her little bird

Caught up the music of the word,

And trill’d an echo, loud and long,

Till, deafen’d quite, she check’d the song.

“That bird,” said she,—“Hush, hush, you thing!—Flew in the window here, one spring.We caught and caged him, and he grewThe sweetest pet that ever flew;I hold my finger toward him so,And down he flies and lights, you know,And pecks my hair and lips, and oh,How jauntily—you ought to see—He perks his head and chirps for me!

“That bird,” said she,—“Hush, hush, you thing!—

Flew in the window here, one spring.

We caught and caged him, and he grew

The sweetest pet that ever flew;

I hold my finger toward him so,

And down he flies and lights, you know,

And pecks my hair and lips, and oh,

How jauntily—you ought to see—

He perks his head and chirps for me!

“Last year, he flew away, one day,And then, the scene we had! the wayWe wept for him; and search’d the town!And how it made the neighbors frownThe twentieth time we ask’d for him!But, just as day was growing dim,He lit on yonder ash-tree limb;And ‘Dick,’ I call’d, and back he flew;Now, didn’t you, birdie?—naughty you!”

“Last year, he flew away, one day,

And then, the scene we had! the way

We wept for him; and search’d the town!

And how it made the neighbors frown

The twentieth time we ask’d for him!

But, just as day was growing dim,

He lit on yonder ash-tree limb;

And ‘Dick,’ I call’d, and back he flew;

Now, didn’t you, birdie?—naughty you!”

With this again she laugh’d at him;And I,—I thought the room grew dim;And then, I whisper’d: “Dear, a word,—For I—I know one other birdThat longs and longs to fly to you;And, dearest, you may cage it, too;’Twill sing, and serve, and be so true.”And then she blush’d, and then she wept,And then this bird of love she kept.

With this again she laugh’d at him;

And I,—I thought the room grew dim;

And then, I whisper’d: “Dear, a word,—

For I—I know one other bird

That longs and longs to fly to you;

And, dearest, you may cage it, too;

’Twill sing, and serve, and be so true.”

And then she blush’d, and then she wept,

And then this bird of love she kept.

Whatever the mission of life may be,Let love keep true, and let thought keep free,And never, whatever may cause the plan,Enlarge the calling to lessen the man.The cut of a coat,Cant chatter’d by rote,A priestly or princely state remoteFrom the ties that bindA man to mankind,Are a clog and a curse to spirit and mind;For God, who made us, made only a man,No arms of a snob, no shield of a clan.Far better a friend that is friendly to God,Than a sycophant kissing a ribbon or rod.Help on no ways nor words that extolThe vise of a bias that binds the soul;No rank held up by holding downTrue worth as an underling stript of his crown;No cause with a lieFor a party-cryTo catch the low or to court the high;No life with a creedThat ends all the needOf knowing or growing in thought or deed.—Weigh well their worth; true dawnings of lightCan abide your waiting and grow more bright.Weigh not, you prove the trend of my thought:Your soul is a slave to be sold and bought.

Whatever the mission of life may be,

Let love keep true, and let thought keep free,

And never, whatever may cause the plan,

Enlarge the calling to lessen the man.

The cut of a coat,

Cant chatter’d by rote,

A priestly or princely state remote

From the ties that bind

A man to mankind,

Are a clog and a curse to spirit and mind;

For God, who made us, made only a man,

No arms of a snob, no shield of a clan.

Far better a friend that is friendly to God,

Than a sycophant kissing a ribbon or rod.

Help on no ways nor words that extolThe vise of a bias that binds the soul;No rank held up by holding downTrue worth as an underling stript of his crown;No cause with a lieFor a party-cryTo catch the low or to court the high;No life with a creedThat ends all the needOf knowing or growing in thought or deed.—Weigh well their worth; true dawnings of lightCan abide your waiting and grow more bright.Weigh not, you prove the trend of my thought:Your soul is a slave to be sold and bought.

Help on no ways nor words that extol

The vise of a bias that binds the soul;

No rank held up by holding down

True worth as an underling stript of his crown;

No cause with a lie

For a party-cry

To catch the low or to court the high;

No life with a creed

That ends all the need

Of knowing or growing in thought or deed.—

Weigh well their worth; true dawnings of light

Can abide your waiting and grow more bright.

Weigh not, you prove the trend of my thought:

Your soul is a slave to be sold and bought.

She came; and I who linger’d there,I saw that she was very fair;And, with my sighs that pride suppress’d,There rose a trembling wish for rest.But I, who had my own designFor destiny that should be mine,I turn’d me to my task and wrought,And so forgot the passing thought.She paused; and I who question’d there,I heard she was as good as fair;And in my soul a still, small voiceEnjoin’d me not to check my choice.But I, who had my own designFor destiny that should be mine,I bade the gentle guardian down,And strove to think about renown.She left; and I who wander, fearThere comes no more to see or hear;Those walls that ward my paradiseAre very high, nor open twice.And I, who had my own designFor destiny that should be mine,Can only wait without the gateAnd sit and sigh—“Too late! too late!”

She came; and I who linger’d there,

I saw that she was very fair;

And, with my sighs that pride suppress’d,

There rose a trembling wish for rest.

But I, who had my own design

For destiny that should be mine,

I turn’d me to my task and wrought,

And so forgot the passing thought.

She paused; and I who question’d there,I heard she was as good as fair;And in my soul a still, small voiceEnjoin’d me not to check my choice.But I, who had my own designFor destiny that should be mine,I bade the gentle guardian down,And strove to think about renown.

She paused; and I who question’d there,

I heard she was as good as fair;

And in my soul a still, small voice

Enjoin’d me not to check my choice.

But I, who had my own design

For destiny that should be mine,

I bade the gentle guardian down,

And strove to think about renown.

She left; and I who wander, fearThere comes no more to see or hear;Those walls that ward my paradiseAre very high, nor open twice.And I, who had my own designFor destiny that should be mine,Can only wait without the gateAnd sit and sigh—“Too late! too late!”

She left; and I who wander, fear

There comes no more to see or hear;

Those walls that ward my paradise

Are very high, nor open twice.

And I, who had my own design

For destiny that should be mine,

Can only wait without the gate

And sit and sigh—“Too late! too late!”

Back to Index Next