Chapter III

But this joy is not for me,
Not for me.
Alas! for my poor broken heart,
With its poisoned arrow's dart.
Without hope, alone, apart.

MY RELEASE.

I hear in the ocean's restless moan
My soul's lament.
Will it ever cease?

I feel in the rumbling earthquake's groan
Deep anguish spent.
Shall I now know peace?

I see in the smallest heaven's loan
Enough for content--
But is that release?

O no!
My release is but found in the pure undertone,
Coming nearer and dearer to me,

Of a great human love beyond Nature at best,
Eternal, inspiring, and free.
Oh, that's my release.
Happy me, happy me!

THE GOD OF MUSIC.

TO E. T. G.

Out from the depths of silence
The god of music came,
To echo heavenly cadence
On earth's fair shores of fame.

Full-orbed, with heavenly glory,
He met the lords of earth.
But 'twas the old, old story,
They blind were to his worth.

So back to depths of silence
He flew on wings of light,
"To bide their time of nonsense,"
He sang when out of sight.

And as rolled on the ages,
He ever and anon
Sent down to earth his pages
The lords to breathe upon.

At length he felt vibrations,
From Germany's fair clime,
Of sweetest modulations
E'er heard in realms of time.

So forth he flew in rapture
To that dear father-land,
To seize--ere earth could capture--
A spirit pure and grand,

To which he could surrender
Himself with perfect ease,
And weave the music tender,
Of heaven's own harmonies.

He found the child Beethoven;
On him his blessing fell.
And in his soul was woven
The sounds we know so well.

TO WILHELM GERICKE.

(_On the completion of his conductorship of the Boston Symphony
Orchestra._)

_1884-1889._

Great poets can without the aid
Of kindred mind
Reveal to us the secrets laid
On them to find;
But music-kings need ministries
To sound their hidden harmonies.

For showing us the inmost heart
Of these great kings,
And making clear with wondrous art
Their wanderings,
We thank thee, while we tender here
A "bon voyage" to home's loved sphere.

FOR E. T. F.