The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 48

Then comes the adagio, with a yielding theme Through which the violas flow soft as in a dream, While horns and mild ba.s.soons are heard In tender tune, that seems to float Like an enchanted boat Upon the downward-gliding stream, Toward the allegro's wide, bright sea Of dancing, glittering, blending tone, Where every instrument is sounding free, And harps like wedding-chimes are rung, and trumpets blown Around the barque of love That rides, with smiling skies above, A royal galley, many-oared, Into the happy harbour of the perfect chord.

IX

IRIS

Light to the eye and Music to the ear,-- These are the builders of the bridge that springs From earth's dim sh.o.r.e of half-remembered things To reach the heavenly sphere Where nothing silent is and nothing dark.

So when I see the rainbow's arc Spanning the showery sky, far-off I hear Music, and every colour sings: And while the symphony builds up its round Full sweep of architectural harmony Above the tide of Time, far, far away I see A bow of colour in the bow of sound.

Red as the dawn the trumpet rings; Blue as the sky, the choir of strings Darkens in double-ba.s.s to ocean's hue, Rises in violins to noon-tide's blue, With threads of quivering light shot through and through; Green as the mantle that the summer flings Around the world, the pastoral reeds in tune Embroider melodies of May and June.

Purer than gold, Yea, thrice-refined gold, And richer than the treasures of the mine, Floods of the human voice divine Along the arch in choral song are rolled.

So bends the bow complete: And radiant rapture flows Across the bridge, so full, so strong, so sweet, That the uplifted spirit hardly knows Whether the Music-Light that glows Within the arch of tones and colours seven, Is sunset-peace of earth or sunrise-joy of Heaven.

X

SEA AND Sh.o.r.e

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 pa.s.sion into tides of peace.

Remembered songs most dear In living songs I hear, While blending voices gently swing and sway, In melodies of love, Whose mighty currents move With singing near and singing far away; Sweet in the glow of morning light, And sweeter still across the starlit gulf of night.

Music, in thee we float, And lose the lonely note Of self in thy celestial-ordered strain, Until at last we find The life to love resigned In harmony of joy restored again; And songs that cheered our mortal days Break on the sh.o.r.e of light in endless hymns of praise.

December, 1901--May, 1903--May, 1916.

MASTER OF MUSIC

(In memory of Theodore Thomas, 1905)

Glory architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard, Living forever in temple and picture and statue and song,-- Look how the world with the lights that they lit is illumined and starred; Brief was the flame of their life, but the lamps of their art burn long!

Where is the Master of Music, and how has he vanished away?

Where is the work that he wrought with his wonderful art in the air?

Gone,--it is gone like the glow on the cloud at the close of the day!

The Master has finished his work and the glory of music is--where?

Once, at the wave of his wand, all the billows of musical sound Followed his will, as the sea was ruled by the prophet of old: Now that his hand is relaxed, and his rod has dropped to the ground, Silent and dark are the sh.o.r.es where the marvellous harmonies rolled!

Nay, but not silent the hearts that were filled by that life-giving sea; Deeper and purer forever the tides of their being will roll, Grateful and joyful, O Master, because they have listened to thee; The glory of music endures in the depths of the human soul.

THE PIPES O' PAN

Great Nature had a million words, In tongues of trees and songs of birds, But none to breathe the heart of man, Till Music filled the pipes o' Pan.

1909.

TO A YOUNG GIRL SINGING

Oh, what do you know of the song, my dear, And how have you made it your own?

You have caught the turn of the melody clear, And you give it again with a golden tone, Till the wonder-word and the wedded note Are flowing out of your beautiful throat With a liquid charm for every ear: And they talk of your art,--but for you alone The song is a thing, unheard, unknown; You only have learned it by rote.

But when you have lived for awhile, my dear, I think you will learn it anew!

For a joy will come, or a grief, or a fear, That will alter the look of the world for you; And the lyric you learned as a bit of art, Will wake to life as a wonderful part Of the love you feel so deep and true; And the thrill of a laugh or the throb of a tear, Will come with your song to all who hear; For then you will know it by heart.

April, 1911.

THE OLD FLUTE

The time will come when I no more can play This polished flute: the stops will not obey My gnarled fingers; and the air it weaves In modulations, like a vine with leaves Climbing around the tower of song, will die In rustling autumn rhythms, confused and dry.

My shortened breath no more will freely fill This magic reed with melody at will; My stiffened lips will try and try in vain To wake the liquid, leaping, dancing strain; The heavy notes will falter, wheeze, and faint, Or mock my ear with shrillness of complaint.

Then let me hang this faithful friend of mine Upon the trunk of some old, sacred pine, And sit beneath the green protecting boughs To hear the viewless wind, that sings and soughs Above me, play its wild, aerial lute, And draw a ghost of music from my flute!

So will I thank the G.o.ds; and most of all The Delian Apollo, whom men call The mighty master of immortal sound,-- Lord of the billows in their chanting round, Lord of the winds that fill the wood with sighs, Lord of the echoes and their sweet replies, Lord of the little people of the air That sprinkle drops of music everywhere, Lord of the sea of melody that laves The universe with never silent waves,-- Him will I thank that this brief breath of mine Has caught one cadence of the song divine; And these frail fingers learned to rise and fall In time with that great tune which throbs thro' all; And these poor lips have lent a lilt of joy To songless men whom weary tasks employ!

My life has had its music, and my heart In harmony has borne a little part, And now I come with quiet, grateful breast To Death's dim hall of silence and of rest.

Freely rendered from the French of Auguste Angellier, 1911.

THE FIRST BIRD O' SPRING

TO OLIVE WHEELER

Winter on Mount Shasta, April down below; Golden hours of glowing sun, Sudden showers of snow!

Under leafless thickets Early wild-flowers cling; But, oh, my dear, I'm fain to hear The first bird o' Spring!

Alders are in ta.s.sel, Maples are in bud; Waters of the blue McCloud Shout in joyful flood; Through the giant pine-trees Flutters many a wing; But, oh, my dear, I long to hear The first bird o' Spring!

Candle-light and fire-light Mingle at "the Bend;"

'Neath the roof of Bo-hai-pan Light and shadow blend.

Sweeter than a wood-thrush A maid begins to sing; And, oh, my dear, I'm glad to hear The first bird o' Spring!

The Bend, California, April 29, 1913.