By loving one and all
Dear children of all races,
Of nations great and small.
And we all hope to bring on earth
Your messenger, PEACE-DOVE,
Through throwing out our ether rays
OF UNIVERSAL LOVE.
AN ODE TO A FAITHFUL DOG DUBBED PICKLES
[_Best Friend of Mr. Thomas Shipp, Washington, D. C._]
Not half so cute is any maid
As PICKLES.
He puts us all deep in the shade,
Does PICKLES.
For though he boasts of years not four
To canine heights he well can soar
On wings he's found in Knowledge-Store,
Wise PICKLES.
He always has a wagging tail,
KIND PICKLES.
His Master Shipp he'll never fail,
Staunch PICKLES.
And that is why all folks who meet
This clever dog in home or street
Declare there is no one so sweet
AS PICKLES.
PEACE FORERUNNER--"LOVE MANKIND."
Little birdie, whispering here,
Tell me, does sweet peace draw near?
Little girl, I sadly fear
Peace will not bring Christmas cheer
While you mortals are so blind
To love your country, not your kind,
Peace can never dwell on earth,
Bringing comfort, joy and mirth,
Until UNIVERSAL LOVE
Paves the way for sweet Peace Dove.
Then, sweet bird, help me to bear
Your good message everywhere,
Begging friends to keep in mind
PEACE FORERUNNER--"LOVE MANKIND."
MUSIC
[_These musical jingles were written for my teacher, Miss Matilda Orr
Hays, of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania._]
There's music, music everywhere
On sea and land and in the air.
It sounds from all things far and near
And brings the weary rest and cheer.
'Tis in the rose and every flower;
'Tis in the storm and gentle shower;
'Tis in the waters of the brook
And every pleasant shady nook.
We hear its notes within the trees
And in the hum of busy bees.
'Tis in the song of every bird
And in the voice of woman heard.
But best of all 'tis in our hearts
And there Love's message it imparts,
For MUSIC is the tongue of Love,
The fairest gift from realms above.
ROBERT FRANZ
[_1815-1892._]
By sweet love, the angel's gift,
Was Robert Franz inspired
To write sweet songs of home and love
Of which we're never tired.
Since Schubert's time no other man
Produced sweet songs so many
And for a number of these songs
He did not get a penny.
Songs two hundred seventy-nine
This music genius wrote
But ere he died like Beethoven
He could not hear a note.
And with his right arm paralyzed
He could not even play
And Liszt for him gave concerts
To keep the wolf away.
He died in abject poverty,
From grief almost insane
But left his songs to cheer us
And drive away our pain.
NATURE'S MUSIC
Where is Nature's music heard?
In hum of insect, song of bird,
In wailing of the wind at night,
In splashing of the wavelets bright
In angry howls when breakers roar
Against the rocks upon the shore.
'Tis in the Storm God's tearful moan;
In human voices' every tone.
When Jupiter his thunder rolls
'Tis Nature's music bell that tolls,
But only those with perfect ear
True sounds of Nature's Music hear.
FRÉDÉRIC FRANÇOIS CHOPIN
[_Born at Zelazowa-Wola, near Warsaw, Poland--1809-1849._]
Though French blood flowed in Chopin's veins
His music was of Polish strains
As he was born in a Polish town,
Which for its name should win renown;
And Zelazowa-Wola stood
Above all cities great and good
In favor with great Chopin who
Was to his birthplace ever true.
When scarcely eight great Fame began
To court him ere he was a man.
But Fate was cruel as well as kind.
In love affairs he did not find
The comfort that his great soul sought
And which to him could have been brought
By only one, a lady wise,
George Sand, with "hazel, big cow eyes."
Oft when we hear his waltzes sweet,
"Come dance, come dance," call to our feet
'Tis hard indeed for us to think
That Chopin oft stood on the brink
Of dreadful Melancholy's lair,
Where in great anguish and despair,
So sick in body, mind and soul,
With only Death as his sure goal,
Sweet and lively airs he wrote
And filled with joy his every note.
For ten long years the white plague sought
To take his life--for health he fought,
But when his sweetheart left his side
He ceased his fight and soon he died.
THE GREATEST KINGS OF MUSIC LAND
The six greatest kings of sweet Music Land
Are Beethoven, Mozart and Wagner the grand;
Great Handel and Bach and Haydn as well,
Who cast o'er the earth its musical spell.
GEORGE FREDERICK HANDEL
[_Born at Halle in Saxony--1685-1759._]
Of all music masters of whom you've heard tell
Great Handel was happiest for he was well,
Tall, handsome and wealthy, generous and kind,
Cheerful in heart and clever in mind.
Pinching dread poverty he never knew;
Surrounded by comforts from childhood he grew;
Though early in life as a very small lad
He wasn't content nor yet very glad
Because his stern father treated with scorn
His belief that for music he had been born.
Alone in an attic he practised each day;
Without any teacher he learned how to play
Until he was heard by a good kindly duke,
Who gave to Herr Handel a stinging rebuke
And made him consent, this father so stern,
That technique of music the young son should learn.
To England George went when to manhood grown,
Adopting this country as his very own.
He was loved by the people of most every clime
And busy and happy just all of the time.
In days scarcely fifteen he wrote his great _Saul_,
And in nineteen more he had finished all
Of _Israel in Egypt_ in whose every tone
The work of a master of music is shown.
And in but two weeks 'tis said that he wrote
His wondrous _Messiah_ complete in each note.
But work without rest from morning till night
Deprived him, like Bach, of precious eye-sight.
For seven long years great Handel was blind,
But lost not his genius nor bright cheerful mind.
He worked every hour until his last breath
Was taken away by the cold Angel Death.
His body in Westminster Abbey was laid,
But the works of his genius will no, never fade.
LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN
[_Born in Bonn, Germany--1770-1827._]
Life is a blossom of sorrow and fun
And Beethoven's sorrow was early begun.
His father was cruel, no pleasure he had,
No wonder that much of his music is sad.
He lived in Vienna, which seldom he left;
Of most earthly joys this poor soul bereft.
The gods had deprived him of beauty of face,
His manners atrocious brought him disgrace.
No money had he and for many a year
Of music he loved no sound could he hear.
No wife to adore him, no children had he
To bring to his home "The Good Fairy Glee."
In rags and in sorrow and always alone
He walked in the fields where, with pitying moan,
He prayed he might hear the song of the trees
And sweet fairy whispers as borne on the breeze.
His prayers were not answered and no sound he heard
Of brooklets or breezes or sweet singing bird.
No wonder from earth he was glad to depart,
Dying, 'tis said, from a real broken heart.
JOHANNES BRAHMS
[_Germany--1833-1897._]
Wagner once said "There are but three B's
In musical circles known,
Beethoven, Bach and Brahms the good
As masters stand alone."
Brahms's mother was a real old maid
Whom his young father wed.
In years full seventeen or more
She well could rank ahead.
But peace and love reigned in this home
And so Johannes grew
Into a gentle kindly lad
Who loved all whom he knew.
When Schumann heard this boy play
In rapture he cried out--
"Behold our new Messiah,
For him the world should shout!"
For many years this good man stood
At Clara Schumann's side
While she was fighting poverty
When her dear husband died.
He helped her rear her children,
With her in concerts played
And loved her with a pure true love
By the immortal made.
And when she died he had no wish
To live his life alone
And welcomed Death to come his way
And claim him as his own.
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
[_Born at Eisenbach in Germany--1685-1750._]
In sixteen hundred eighty-five
Long, long before you were alive,
In the town of Eisenbach
Was born Johann Sebastian Bach.
From his father ever kind
And his brother he did find
The key to enter Music Land,
Which he found so sweet and grand.
No more industrious lad could be
Than Johann, who loved "Industry."
"The Mighty Master" he is known
Of the organ's every tone.
Twice this music master wed
And he was happy so 'tis said;
But he worked both day and night
Until at last he lost his sight.
Though he was blind he cheerful kept
And o'er his sorrow never wept,
And when he died he left a son,
To shine for him when his work was done.
FRANZ JOSEPH HAYDN
[_Born in Rohrau, Austria--1732-1809._]
How often when a little chap
On Haydn's shoulders fell the strap.
E'er he was six as if a man
His struggles with the world began.
His parents could not write nor read.
A cousin said, "I'll gladly feed
And clothe young Joseph, who can sing
And to my pockets money bring."
But little food he gave to him
And plenty of the sharp peach limb.
When Joe then lost his tuneful voice
His cousin gave to him no choice
But turned him out to earn his way--
'Tis said he worked both night and day,
And, working thus, young Haydn rose
Far, far above his friends and foes.
Rich he became and gained great fame
While all musicians love his name.
His greatest work was _The Creation_
And artists of most every nation
Ever bow down at his knee
As "Father of the SYMPHONY."
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART
[_Born in Salzburg, Austria--1756-1791._]
Mozart, "The Glorious Boy", Rubenstein named him well,
Was born with the gift of music, on him the mantel fell
Of many great composers, who justly won a name,
Though Mozart soared above them on pinnacles of fame.
When as a tiny kiddie with birthdays not yet five
He played his little violin as if it were alive,
Composing wondrous music which was so grand and sweet
That even queens and princes would fall down at his feet.
His music flowed as easily as waters in a brook,
And sparkled as bright sunbeams peeping in a nook.
An opera he finished before his thirteenth year
And when he was but fourteen musicians came to hear
La Scala, greatest orchestra, which the world then had,
As it was well directed by this inspired lad.
The Pope conferred upon him the order "Golden Spur."
Until he reached his sixteenth year nothing did deter
This clever lad from mounting to highest realms of fame,
Flowers rained upon him and life seemed but a game.
And then came years of suffering when through Envy's stings
And malice of musicians, who wished to clip his wings,
He saw the dark and dreary and rocky road of life
And soon he grew awearied of sickness, hunger, strife
And discontent within his home, for Constance whom he wed,
Was ever cross and ailing and spent her days in bed.
And though he was still youthful, not more than thirty-five,
When most of earthly children are glad to be alive,
Poor Mozart, worn by constant work and worried by his wife,
One dreary, dark December day to Death gave up his life.
This great soul's earthly castle not one friend tried to save
From an ignoble burial within a pauper's grave;
And no one put a marker to show where it was laid,
But the glory of great Mozart's works will never, never fade.
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
[_Born in Leipsic, Germany--1813-1883._]
In the midst of tumult and mixed up with strife
The world renowned great Wagner spent most all his life.
All around his birthplace the day that he was born
Many thousand soldiers lay bleeding, cut and torn
By the fiendish war god, who delights to slay.
And after him came "Pestilence," who bore with her away
The father of young Wagner, and as his mother had
Seven other children no wonder that this lad
Should grow up just like Topsy without a guiding hand,
With no one to direct his steps and no one to command.
Then Fever wracked his body and he was very ill,
But fairies came to comfort, sweet music to instil
Into his wondrous fingers and in his kindly heart,
Henceforth of all his life work to take the biggest part;
Although in spite of music in rebel plans he mixed,
And exile to Herr Wagner's name for long years was affixed.
Twice he sailed on Hymen's sea, and I have heard it said
His first wife, Wilhelmina, proposed that he should wed.
With her he knew no happiness in all his married life,
For she was ever brewing the noxious stew of strife.
But when Liszt's lovely daughter, the fair Casima, came,
She filled his home with joy and also brought him fame.
From her sweet inspiration his greatest work was made,
The soul inspiring _Parsifal_, whose fame will never fade.
Death took him from the arms of his adoring wife.
He passed away so peacefully, but left behind him strife
Concerning the real merit of all he ever wrote.
Some class him with divinities, some put him with the goat;
Some love his mimic thunder and sighing of the breeze,
While others say his music is but a bang and wheeze.
FRANZ PETER SCHUBERT
[_Born in Vienna, Austria--1797-1828._]
A poor schoolmaster was his pa,
A common cook his scolding ma,
Who was not one bit glad to see
Her thirteenth child a boy wee,
Who came one blustering wintry day
Within her crowded house to stay.
Though Franz was cold and hungry too
The Music Sprites his soul would woo
And oft he wrote as in a trance
Some lovely song in which perchance
The singer seemed as blithe could be
And filled with joyful ecstasy.
He loved a maid of high degree
With whom he could not married be
And while for this maid Caroline
His beating heart with love did pine
In one short year this song bird wrote
Two symphonies in every note,
Five operas and many more
Airs that stamp of genius bore,
One hundred thirty-seven songs
Depicting hopes, and joys and wrongs.
Of these immortal songs 'tis said
Six were sold for a loaf of bread.
Full ten great symphonies he made
But no one to them honor paid
While he was yet upon this earth,
And never courted by True Mirth,
But ever hungry, weak and ill
Though working with his great soul's will
Until the age of thirty-one
When Death said "Rest, your work is done."
ROBERT SCHUMANN
[_Born in Zwickau, Germany--1810-1856._]
To most great music makers
The fates have been unkind
And in the life of Schumann
Few joys we can find
Except in the great love
Of Clara, his dear wife,
Who helped him in his struggles
Throughout his married life.
He lost the power of playing
Through dread paralysis.
But Clara said, "Don't worry
For nothing you need miss
Since you can write sweet lovely airs
And I'll play them for you
And thus we two together
The Music Muse can woo."
One hundred songs and thirty-eight
He wrote in one short year,
Inspired by his loving wife
Who brought him hope and cheer.
And when he died at forty-six
And left her very poor
With her eight children Clara went
Upon a concert tour.
And with her wondrous playing
Of airs her husband made
She earned her bread and butter
And glory ne'er to fade,
For Schumann's magic music
And songs that reach the heart,
Showing they are tempered
With great Apollo's art.
GIUSEPPE VERDI
[_Born in Duchy of Parma, Italy--1813-1901._]
The life of Verdi reads as well
As any fairy tale;
To interest a girl or boy
I'm sure it could not fail.
The stork brought him to Mother Earth
In time of dreadful strife.
Hid in an ancient church belfry
His mother saved his life.
And in this church which sheltered him
From cruel blood-thirsty men
He played as the church organist
When he was only ten.
The imps of evil troubled him
But fairies came along
To help him in his sorrows
And fill his heart with song.
Like the proverbial mother cat
Nine lives he seemed to have
And for each injury received
There always was some salve.
Into the water once he fell
And down he went times three
Then some one rescued this young lad
As if by Fate's decree.
The poor child yearned for music land
And also longed for bread.
And for a girdle round his waist
He often wore, 'tis said,
A bit of rope which he pulled taut
When hunger did assail.
And yet this lad all poorly clad
And weak and wan and pale
Forgot his hunger and his wants
When Music's tones he heard
In rippling of the waters bright,
In songs of every bird.
Close to the fence of a rich man
Whose daughter played each night
Verdi when only six years old
Would listen with delight.
This hungry lad prayed often there
That some day he might own
A lovely spinet in whose keys
Were fairies' magic tones.
One night while it was raining hard
O'er the high fence he crawled
Of an Italian wealthy man,
Signor Barezzi called.
He heard the daughter sweetly play
A grand Beethoven air
And while he lay enraptured there
A coachman found his lair
And beat the poor starved youngster whom
He called a "dirty thief,"
And drove him from the music's reach
Despite the poor child's grief.
But on the next night Verdi went
Though filled with quaking fear
And crawled again beneath the fence
Sweet music there to hear.
And here Barezzi found the lad
As by the fence he lay
And took the boy into his home
To hear his daughter play.
He took an interest in this child
And placed him in a school
Where he could learn of music
Each necessary rule.
But disappointed he became
When all the teachers said
This boy who plays so queerly
Will never rank ahead;
As a musician of true worth
He cannot hold his own
And in Apollo's circle
He never will be known.
And so discouraged, this poor lad
Became a grocer boy
Though every night he practised hard--
This was his only joy.
And then quite foolishly alas
The grocer's daughter wed
And two small children came to him;
For them there was no bread,
And his young wife and children too
From dreadful hunger died
Just when his first great opera
Most loudly was decried
And he himself hissed off the stage.
No wonder that he thought
This life for him with sorrow's face
Forever would be fraught,
And it were better now to cross
The Border-Land's dark path
Through Suicide's short awful route
Than live 'neath dark Fate's wrath.
But after two sad dreary years
Of darkness and despair
His operas succeeded
And life seemed much more fair.
He married a good second wife
And wealthy he became;
Legion of Honor given him
Was added to his fame.
In the Italian parliament
Verdi received a seat
And many other honors great
Were cast down at his feet.
While his _Il Trovatore_ great
When first 'twas sung in Rome
Became so very popular
'Twas heard in every home,
And e'en to-day in every land
This opera is played
And glory for its author
Will never, never fade.
The name Giuseppe Verdi
Stands for composer great
And one whose heart was ever filled
With love instead of hate.
But one bad fault this genius had
Of flying into fits,
And in great anger once he broke
A spinet into bits.
And when he taught his pupils
He often boxed their ears,
So of the music master
Their hearts were filled with fears.
But he was always good and kind
To all the poor and weak,
And to help his fellow men
He would ever seek.
And when his works brought fame and wealth
Barezzi's house he bought,
Tore down the fence and made the grounds
Into a music lot.
And there this benefactor
Invited one and all
To come on every pleasant night
And hear Apollo's call.
FRANZ LISZT
[_Born in Raiding, Hungary--1811-1886._]
Like Goddess Minerva so it is said
Liszt sprang fully armed from Jupiter's head.
Master of every silvery note
Of the hum of the bee or the human throat.
Ere he was nine, on the ladder of fame
He climbed, never stumbling and never once lame,
Until he had reached the rung at the top
When Death interfered with "Time now to stop."
Wealth flowed to this genius from his symphonies
His teachings, his concerts, and grand rhapsodies.
And as he went lauded on many a tour
He scattered his money to those who were poor.
Neat in his dress and with manners polite
Courting sweet friendship, avoiding a fight,
This great man was loved by one and by all,
The rich and the poor and the great and the small.
ANTON RUBINSTEIN
[_Born in Volhynia, Russia--1829-1894._]
When precious gifts gods give to men,
A great price they require,
As we have seen in all the lives
Of those they did inspire
With Music's wondrous magic charm
That all true men adore
Be they of wild and savage state
Or wise men full of lore.
And so with Anton Rubinstein
Who many sorrows had
Not only when to manhood grown
But when he was a lad.
His parents were of Jewish birth
Though Christians they became
When cruelly persecuted
Alas! in Christ's good name.
His mother gave unto her boys
In music their first start,
And trained their minds to travel
In realms of Music-Art.
And later on she took her sons
To Paris, there to learn
To bring forth the great music
Which in their souls did burn.
When but a very little chap
Anton wrote wondrous songs
Describing joys and sorrows
And depicting wrongs,
Which when he played in public
Made all his hearers sigh,
Laugh aloud or clap their hands
And sometimes even cry.
Young Nicholas, his brother,
Composed almost as well
For both these music lovers
Had touched Apollo's shell.
But white plague took poor Nicholas
Ere he could finish quite
The songs the fairies whispered
Oft in the stilly night.
While Anton worked for many a year
And on the ladder FAME
As a sensation player
Securely placed his name.
To every realm of music
Some work this master gave
And o'er his _Ocean Symphony_
All of the nations rave.
But all his thoughts were not of love,
And Liszt and Wagner airs
Were classed by him as discords
Not fit for country fairs.
He hated also our good land,
Though when upon our shore
He gathered in the golden streams
And held his hand for more.
He traveled in most every land,
Was steeped in music lore,
And his great songs in number
Will almost make eight score.
But he was never happy
As in his heart was "Hate,"
Which shut out Fairy Happiness
All mortals' proper mate.
CHRISTOPHER WILLIBALD GLÜCK
[_Born in Weidenwang, Germany--1714-1787._]
Though Glück himself lived a peaceful life
His _Iphigénie_ caused much strife
As on its merits Frenchmen fought
Against Italians who had sought
To down the so-called Glucist school
And call each follower a fool.
The Picinists and Glucists then
Agreed to a great contest when
Each faction said that it would show
The 'tother ought to Lethe go
But after all harsh words were spent
Both factions gladly gave consent
That Glück's dramatic opera grand
Ruled then o'er all great Music Land.
LOUIS HECTOR BERLIOZ
[_France--1803-1869._]
A prophet without honor
In his own country known
Was Louis Hector Berlioz
Who yearned but for a bone
Of French approval for his works
Which strangers always praised
But which in his own country
No great applause would raise.
"A doctor you must be, my son,"
His father sternly said,
But Louis tried to prove to him
That music ranks ahead
Of all this life's professions
And he would like to try
To win the famous Prix de Rome--
Oh, he would aim so high!
His father laughed his son to scorn,
His teachers quarreled with him,
They said he was eccentric
And music was a whim.
Then poor and hungry he left home
And three times bravely tried
To win the longed for Prix de Rome
For which ambition cried,
The third time proved to him a charm
And with his laurels crowned
He hastened to his much loved France
But there no praise he found.
An English actress he adored
And made her his first wife--
But little happiness she brought--
Naught but complaints and strife,
As a sad accident befell
This one time actress great
And as she lay so ill and cross
She ever cursed her fate.
A baby came into this home;
The hunger wolf came too,
And when the mother left this home
He knew not what to do.
He married then a second time
And sorrows thicker came
And soon he lost his only boy
In War God's awful game.
As he was born 'neath planet Mars
For him there was no peace,
His life was one fierce conflict
Where troubles never cease.
KARL MARIA FRIEDRICH ERNST VON WEBER
[_Born at Eutin, near Lubeck, in Germany--1786-1826._]
To ancestors all of a musical race
The genius of Weber we easily trace.
And from early training in babyhood days
His thoughts were all turned to musical lays.
At fourteen an opera little Karl wrote,
Finished completely in its every note.
Creator of "ROMANTIC OPERA," he
Gained a position on Life's Stellar Sea.
Like other great artists he never was blessed
With habits of knowing just how to take rest.
While writing _Der Freischutz_, his great masterpiece,
He cut many years from Nature's life lease.
And when working constantly without a rest,
Despite every signal of health in distress,
The wonderful Oberon opera he wrote,
He sounded, alas, his Death calling note.
JAKOB LUDWIG FELIX MENDELSSOHN
[_Born at Hamburg, Germany--1809-1847._]
By the composer Mendelssohn
Cruel poverty was never known.
A genius born and with great wealth
With loving parents and good health
And with his heart so full of fun
We christen him "The happy one."