Hymn to Music
THOU who dost dwell, and art a living passion
In nature's soul—Music—I sing of thee.
O how can thought of man or language fashion
Unto the mind the might of harmony!
The very hope is blissful vanity;
Yet, by the power of fancy hurled along,
My spirit with compelling melody
Beats rapturously! far off! I catch the song
Of spirits, lost the shimmering heights of heaven among.
On golden clouds and rainbows bright, descending
Far through the many-coloured universe,
Fair trains of spirits beautiful are wending
Their rosy way to harmony and verse;
Their very presence steals away the curse
Which lies on nature—these are they who hold
Each sun and star in their appointed course.
The dream of sage Pythagoras behold:
Lo! music's golden wing the universe enfold.
See! on a throne of brightness as the sun,
Great Homer strikes his high immortal lyre,
And as the master's fingers lightly run
Along the ranges of the sounding wire,
See! Pindar kindle with the mystic fire
Of inspiration as he bends below.
The strings are struck, and higher, higher, higher!
The perfect notes swell rapid now, now slow,
And anon scarcely heard so distant, sweet, and low.
But what is yon fair spirit crowned with stars
Around whose feet a thousand others play?
Lo! there are trumpets sounding to the wars,
The tragic song of woe, the lovely lay,
Love's many-tonèd harp—the sad, the gay,
The various music of humanity,
All these are there, lit by the glorious ray
Of genius, and the sea of harmony
Rolls perfect in its sound, resistless, vast, and free.
This is th' Hellenic mind, the embodiment
Of intellect and genius. View her well;
Upon her robe there is no seam or rent,
But all is perfect—say what tongue can tell
Her glory?—hers without a parallel!
The civiliser of a thousand worlds
Springing to life in time—renown doth fill
His trumpet with her name, while peace unfurls
Her banner, and despair to the past's darkness hurls.
This is the greatest legacy of time,
A harvest in itself—and yet a seed
Of that within the future, when sublime
Man shall arise from guilt and error freed—
Nay, smile not at the hope!—it is decreed:
We dream not of the summits that man's mind
Will yet attain—what visions bright succeed
Each other as the changing strains unwind:
All thought! all life! all joy! are by their Power confined.
In nature's soul—Music—I sing of thee.
O how can thought of man or language fashion
Unto the mind the might of harmony!
The very hope is blissful vanity;
Yet, by the power of fancy hurled along,
My spirit with compelling melody
Beats rapturously! far off! I catch the song
Of spirits, lost the shimmering heights of heaven among.
On golden clouds and rainbows bright, descending
Far through the many-coloured universe,
Fair trains of spirits beautiful are wending
Their rosy way to harmony and verse;
Their very presence steals away the curse
Which lies on nature—these are they who hold
Each sun and star in their appointed course.
The dream of sage Pythagoras behold:
Lo! music's golden wing the universe enfold.
See! on a throne of brightness as the sun,
Great Homer strikes his high immortal lyre,
And as the master's fingers lightly run
Along the ranges of the sounding wire,
See! Pindar kindle with the mystic fire
Of inspiration as he bends below.
The strings are struck, and higher, higher, higher!
The perfect notes swell rapid now, now slow,
And anon scarcely heard so distant, sweet, and low.
But what is yon fair spirit crowned with stars
Around whose feet a thousand others play?
Lo! there are trumpets sounding to the wars,
The tragic song of woe, the lovely lay,
Love's many-tonèd harp—the sad, the gay,
The various music of humanity,
All these are there, lit by the glorious ray
Of genius, and the sea of harmony
Rolls perfect in its sound, resistless, vast, and free.
This is th' Hellenic mind, the embodiment
Of intellect and genius. View her well;
Upon her robe there is no seam or rent,
But all is perfect—say what tongue can tell
Her glory?—hers without a parallel!
The civiliser of a thousand worlds
Springing to life in time—renown doth fill
His trumpet with her name, while peace unfurls
Her banner, and despair to the past's darkness hurls.
This is the greatest legacy of time,
A harvest in itself—and yet a seed
Of that within the future, when sublime
Man shall arise from guilt and error freed—
Nay, smile not at the hope!—it is decreed:
We dream not of the summits that man's mind
Will yet attain—what visions bright succeed
Each other as the changing strains unwind:
All thought! all life! all joy! are by their Power confined.
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