(Frederick Shepherd Converse: born in Newton, Mass., January 5, 1877; now living in Westwood, Mass.)
This symphonic poem, composed in 1899, is the first of a series of "romances" suggested to the composer by scenes in Keats's "Endymion." What portions of the poem inspired this particular work Mr. Converse has not avowed; yet the statement is responsibly made that "emphasis is thrown upon the contrast between Endymion's melancholy and the joyous pomp of the festival of Pan"; it may not, therefore, be inapt to quote those portions of Keats' poem which set forth this situation:
"Now while the silent workings of the dawnWere busiest, into that self-same lawnAll suddenly, with joyful cries, there spedA troop of little children garlanded;Who, gathering round the altar, seem'd to pryEarnestly round as wishing to espySome folk of holiday; nor had they waitedFor many moments, ere their ears were satedWith a faint breath of music, which even thenFill'd out its voice and died away again.
"Leading the way, young damsels danced along,Bearing the burden of a shepherd's song;Each having a white wicker, overbrimm'dWith April's tender younglings; next, well trimm'd,A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looksAs may be read of in Arcadian books;Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe,When the great deity, for earth too ripe,Let his divinity o'erflowing dieIn music, through the vales of Thessaly.
"... Then came another crowdOf shepherds, lifting in due time aloudTheir share of the ditty. After them appear'd,Up-follow'd by a multitude that rear'dTheir voices to the clouds, a fair-wrought carEasily rolling so as scarce to marThe freedom of three steeds of dapple-brown;Who stood therein did seem of great renownAmong the throng. His youth was fully blown,Showing like Ganymede to manhood grown;
"A smile was on his countenance; he seem'dTo common lookers-on like one who dream'dOf idleness in groves Elysian;But there were some who feelingly could scanA lurking trouble in his nether lip,And see that oftentimes the reins would slipThrough his forgotten hands: then would they sigh,And think of yellow leaves, of owlets' cry,Of logs piled solemnly.—Ah, well-a-day,Why should our young Endymion pine away!"