TO MY FRIEND AND COLLEAGUE,JAMES HUNEKER.
TO MY FRIEND AND COLLEAGUE,JAMES HUNEKER.
Dear James:
Beside the ebon StyxThe brood harmonious wanders slow.A backward gaze on earth they fix,And ask, "Where doth dear Music go?"I fancy Palestrina stares,And good Scarlatti gasps for breath,While Handel, with his figured airs,Bemoans poor Music's early death.Old Haydn shakes his long peruke,And Mozart wags his pendant cue,As both record their soft rebuke:"What is it that these moderns do?"Alone in all that troubled throngOne moves with calm, unruffled brow;For still Sebastian's voice is strongTo say, "'Twas I who taught them how."So when the storms discordant brew,You smile at me across the house;For well you know there's nothing new,Not even (pardon!) in your Strauss.Except, perhaps, a fine disguiseOf leading motives, wood and strings,Which make a score look wondrous wise,And seem to mean to many things.So weave your fancies; I'll weave mine;And let them wander, dark or bright.The Lords of Art have graven fine;Perchance we both discern aright.
Beside the ebon StyxThe brood harmonious wanders slow.A backward gaze on earth they fix,And ask, "Where doth dear Music go?"
Beside the ebon Styx
The brood harmonious wanders slow.
A backward gaze on earth they fix,
And ask, "Where doth dear Music go?"
I fancy Palestrina stares,And good Scarlatti gasps for breath,While Handel, with his figured airs,Bemoans poor Music's early death.
I fancy Palestrina stares,
And good Scarlatti gasps for breath,
While Handel, with his figured airs,
Bemoans poor Music's early death.
Old Haydn shakes his long peruke,And Mozart wags his pendant cue,As both record their soft rebuke:"What is it that these moderns do?"
Old Haydn shakes his long peruke,
And Mozart wags his pendant cue,
As both record their soft rebuke:
"What is it that these moderns do?"
Alone in all that troubled throngOne moves with calm, unruffled brow;For still Sebastian's voice is strongTo say, "'Twas I who taught them how."
Alone in all that troubled throng
One moves with calm, unruffled brow;
For still Sebastian's voice is strong
To say, "'Twas I who taught them how."
So when the storms discordant brew,You smile at me across the house;For well you know there's nothing new,Not even (pardon!) in your Strauss.
So when the storms discordant brew,
You smile at me across the house;
For well you know there's nothing new,
Not even (pardon!) in your Strauss.
Except, perhaps, a fine disguiseOf leading motives, wood and strings,Which make a score look wondrous wise,And seem to mean to many things.
Except, perhaps, a fine disguise
Of leading motives, wood and strings,
Which make a score look wondrous wise,
And seem to mean to many things.
So weave your fancies; I'll weave mine;And let them wander, dark or bright.The Lords of Art have graven fine;Perchance we both discern aright.
So weave your fancies; I'll weave mine;
And let them wander, dark or bright.
The Lords of Art have graven fine;
Perchance we both discern aright.
W. J. H.August, 1904.