Part 47 (2/2)

Hark, a sudden trumpet calling Over the hill!

Why are you calling, trumpet, calling?

What is your will?

Men, men, men!

Men who are ready to fight For their country's life, and the right Of a liberty-loving land to be Free, free, free!

Free from a tyrant's chain, Free from dishonor's stain, Free to guard and maintain All that her fathers fought for, All that her sons have wrought for, Resolute, brave, and free!

Call again, trumpet, call again, Call up the men!

Do you hear the storm of cheers Mingled with the women's tears And the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching feet?

Do you hear the throbbing drum As the hosts of battle come Keeping time, time, time to its beat?

O Music give a song To make their spirit strong For the fury of the tempest they must meet.

The hoa.r.s.e roar Of the monster guns; And the sharp bark Of the lesser guns; The whine of the sh.e.l.ls, The rifles' clatter Where the bullets patter, The rattle, rattle, rattle Of the mitrailleuse in battle, And the yells Of the men who charge through h.e.l.ls Where the poison gas descends, And the bursting shrapnel rends Limb from limb In the dim Chaos and clamor of the strife Where no man thinks of his life But only of fighting through, Blindly fighting through, through!

'Tis done At last!

The victory won, The dissonance of warfare past!

O Music mourn the dead Whose loyal blood was shed, And sound the taps for every hero slain; Then lead into the song That made their spirit strong, And tell the world they did not die in vain.

Thank G.o.d we can see, in the glory of morn, The invincible flag that our fathers defended; And our hearts can repeat what the heroes have sworn, That war shall not end till the war-l.u.s.t is ended.

Then the bloodthirsty sword shall no longer be lord Of the nations oppressed by the conqueror's horde, But the banners of Liberty proudly shall wave O'er the _world_ of the free and the lands of the brave.

May, 1916.

VIII

THE SYMPHONY

Music, they do thee wrong who say thine art Is only to enchant the sense.

For every timid motion of the heart, And every pa.s.sion too intense To bear the chain of the imperfect word, And every tremulous longing, stirred By spirit winds that come we know not whence And go we know not where, And every inarticulate prayer Beating about the depths of pain or bliss, Like some bewildered bird That seeks its nest but knows not where it is, And every dream that haunts, with dim delight, The drowsy hour between the day and night, The wakeful hour between the night and day,-- Imprisoned, waits for thee, Impatient, yearns for thee, The queen who comes to set the captive free!

Thou lendest wings to grief to fly away, And wings to joy to reach a heavenly height; And every dumb desire that storms within the breast Thou leadest forth to sob or sing itself to rest.

All these are thine, and therefore love is thine.

For love is joy and grief, And trembling doubt, and certain-sure belief, And fear, and hope, and longing unexpressed, In pain most human, and in rapture brief Almost divine.

Love would possess, yet deepens when denied; And love would give, yet hungers to receive; Love like a prince his triumph would achieve; And like a miser in the dark his joys would hide.

Love is most bold, He leads his dreams like armed men in line; Yet when the siege is set, and he must speak, Calling the fortress to resign Its treasure, valiant love grows weak, And hardly dares his purpose to unfold.

Less with his faltering lips than with his eyes He claims the longed-for prize: Love fain would tell it all, yet leaves the best untold.

But thou shalt speak for love. Yea, thou shalt teach The mystery of measured tone, The Pentecostal speech That every listener heareth as his own.

For on thy head the cloven tongues of fire,-- Diminished chords that quiver with desire, And major chords that glow with perfect peace,-- Have fallen from above; And thou canst give release In music to the burdened heart of love.

Sound with the 'cellos' pleading, pa.s.sionate strain The yearning theme, and let the flute reply In placid melody, while violins complain, And sob, and sigh, With muted string; Then let the oboe half-reluctant sing Of bliss that trembles on the verge of pain, While 'cellos plead and plead again, With throbbing notes delayed, that would impart To every urgent tone the beating of the heart.

So runs the andante, making plain The hopes and fears of love without a word.

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