THE

MUSIC LOVERS' TREASURY

SYMPHONY

Not to the realm of breathed sounds alone
Belong all instruinents of melody:

No less than Music's self hath Poesy
Her instruments, perchance of finer tore.
She hath her sonnet-trumpet for her own,
Her viols and her pipes of balladry,

And silver flutes for love's sweet ministry In many a tender lyric softly blown. List, how in, clearest harmony they sound,Cymbals and drums beating in battle-song, Harp-strains of holy psalmody, up-stealing;

And, heard through all, with mighty voice profound

Outpoured, a wave of sound sustained and

strong,

The solemn epic's thunderous organ-peal

ing!

Robertson Trowbridge.

MUSIC AND POETRY

I

Sing, poets, as ye list, of fields, of flowers,
Of changing seasons with their brilliant round
Of keen delights, or themes still more pro-
found

Where soul through sense transmutes this world of ours.

There is a life intense beyond your powers
Of utterance, which the ear alone has found
In the aerial fields of rhythmic sound-
The invigiate pathways and air-woven bowers
Built by entwining melodies and chords.
Ah, could I find some correspondent sign
Matching such wondrous art with fitting
words!

But vain the task. Within his hallowed shrine
Apollo veils his face. No muse records.

In human speech such mysteries divine.

II

Yet words though weak are all that poets own Wherewith their muse translates that kindred

muse

Of Harmony, whose subtle forms and hues.
Float in the unlanguaged poesy of Tone.
And so no true-souled artist stands alone;
But all are brothers, though one hand may

use

A magic wand the others must refuse,

And painters need no sculptor's Parian stone.
If Art is long, yet is her province wide.
While all for truth and beauty live and dare,
One sacred temple covers all her sons.
Music and Poesy, stand side by side.

Through every member one biood-current

runs:

One aim, one work, one destiny they share.

Christopher P. Cranch.

FROM "THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM "

If music and sweet poetry agree,

As they must needs, the sister and the brother, Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and

me,

Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense;
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such,
As passing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound
That Phoebus' lute, the queen of music, makes;
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd,
Whenas himself to singing he betakes.

One god is god of both, as poets feign;
One knight loves both, and both in thee
remain.

And run on the same feet, ever.

Peace! Thou want'st.

One heavenly sense, and speaks in igno

rance.

Seest thou no differing shadows which divide The rose and poppy? 'Tis the same with

sounds.

There's not a minute in the round of time

But's hinged with different music. In that

small space

Between the thought and its swift utterance Ere silence buds to sound the angels, listening,

Hear infinite varieties of song!

And they who turn the lightning-rapid spheres Have flown an evening's journey.

Bryan W. Procter (" Barry Cornwall").

SEA AND SHORE1

Music, I yield to thee;

As swimmer to the sea

I give my spirit to the flood of song:

Bear me upon thy breast

In rapture and at rest,

Bathe me in pure delight and make me strong; From strife and struggle bring release, And draw the waves of passion into tides of peace.

Remember'd songs, most dear,

In living songs I hear,

'From "Music and Other Poems," copyright, 1904, by Charles Scribner's Sons.