And when the wrecked mariner hears in the

blast

The fog-bell sound, it was I who passed.

-

The poets have told you how I, a young maid,
Came fresh from the gods to the myrtle shade,
And thence by a power divine I stole
To where the waters of Mincius roll;
Then down by Clitumnus and Arno's vale
I wandered, passionate and pale,
Until I found me at sacred Rome,

Where one of the Medici gave me a home.
Leo, great Leo, he worshipped me,

And the Vatican stairs for my foot were free;
And now I am come to your glorious land,
Give me great welcome with heart and hand.
Remember Beethoven I gave him his art -
And Sebastian Bach and superb Mozart:
Join them in my worship; and when the swell
Of their mighty organs hath laid a spell
On every sense, and thy cares are drowned,
Hear the voices of heaven through the men
heaven hath crowned.

Thomas W. Parsons.

OF MUSIC

The miner delves in caverns of the earth Away from God's dear light, from everything

That breedeth joy and hope and wholesome mirth.

Ah, heaven, how fair the change, how good to spring

Into the open, after dark and dearth!

The sailor gasps upon a sullen sea,

Shipwrecked, half-mad for water, dying

there;

Yet all the brine is but a mockery,

And devils leer along the burning air.

Then, rain! how all-divine that drink must be!

One, a world wanderer, drifts from strand to strand

For heedless years, but then is fain to

roam

No more; he longs to clasp some kinsman's hand,

To sleep in sacred chambers of his home. How blest the day he hails the loved, lost land!

But neither light, nor drink, nor home ways stir

Such rare delight, such infinite keen bliss In them, as comes to me, a worshipper

Of music, when I hear it yearn and kiss: Life thrills, grows luminous-large, smells sweet with balm and myrrh.

Richard Burton.

VIVA LA MUSICA

Our house, that long in darkness dwelt, And long in silence, day by day,

Before the mountain snows could melt, While yet the world was bleak and gray, Received an impulse from the play Of sudden fingers on the strings, That made the new-born meadows gay With magic touch, as 'twere the Spring's.

The melancholy frog no more

Shall pipe his burden, twanging shrill;