Sonnet -- Music

Not in the chained and tortured notes, which ring

   On human tongues, thw soul of Music dwells;

   But oh, most sweet on Nature's harp-string swells

Enrapturing harmony. The breathing Spring

Is full of music, as each living thing

   In willing songs its new-born gladness tells;

   And the hoarse tempest wakes it, as it yells

Through the thick forest trees. The dark clouds bring

Their voiceful choristers—the storm—the hail

   And the deep thunder with its organ-peal;

The leaping torrent, and the rushing gale,

   Are not less joyous than the notes which steal

In softest whisperings o'er the vested sod,

All pour alike, untaught, their hymns to Natures God.

 

And there is music in the golden cloud,

   As its soft folds curl on the sky's deep blue,

   Music that seems almost to greet the view,

When heaven's mild breath just stirs the gorgeous shroud

Of the dead hours, and unseen spirits crowd

   The hall where twilight spreads the pall anew,

   And o'er departing day, weeps tears of dew;

While earth hath hushed her hoarser tones and loud:

Then the soul listens to the songs of love

   Heard only in its own serener deep,—

The last faint echoes from that choir above

   Whose feeblest numbers make the spirit leap

With holier joy,—O Music! these are thine,

This hour, these tones, and here thy voice is all divine.

 

Why turn from Nature, when her children come

   With thousand harps, and thrice ten thousand tones,

   All varied yet harmonious, from the moans

Of the flower-wooing, love-sick breeze, or hum

Of the small insect, to the thunder-drum

   Of the wild storm-choir, or the reading groans

   Of an imprisoned earthquake, when the bones

Of worlds rock-ribbed are crushed? Why bow to some

Mean mockery of music, madly made

   By man, vain deeming that his hand might stir

The eternal harmonies that wide prevade

   All Time and Space? Thou fool! turn back, to her

Whose hand alone can sweep the sounding lyre,

And pour the undying tones, that lend thy spirit fire.

 

Whether thy soul delighteth in the low

   And solemn murmurs of the vesper hymn,

   Or notes more shrill and joyous, such as swim

On the live air when insect millions blow

Their slender pipes, or dwells on sullen wo,

   Thrills to the victor trump and shout of him

   Who, throned in triumph, guides his coursers grim

For human hearts, or heeds Love's softer flow,—

Go torn to Nature with her untaught tones;

   She hath a voice for all thy moods,—a song

In breeze, bird, storm. loud thunder, waves, and moans

   Of distant water-falls,—glad, wild, or strong,

Thrilling or sad, as suits to sink or soar;

To hear her voice and learn to mock her powers no more.