THE SONGS OF THE RHINE.
THE WATCHMAN'S SONG.--THE WILD HUNT OF LUeTZOW.--THE AUTHOR OF THE
ERL KING.--BEETHOVEN'S BOYHOOD.--THE ORGAN-TEMPEST OF LUCERNE.
Rhineland is the land of song. It is the wings of song that have given
it its fame. Every town on the Rhine has its own songs; every
mountain, hill, and river.
America has few local songs,--few songs of the people. The singers who
give voices to rivers, lakes, mountains, and valleys have not yet
appeared. The local poets and singers of America are yet to come.
In England, Germany, and some of the provinces of France, every
temple, stream, and grove has had its sweet singer.
Go to Basle, and you may hear the clubs singing the heroic songs of
Alsace and Lorraine.
Go to Heidelberg, and you may listen to student-songs through which
breathe the national spirit of hundreds of years.
The bands tell the story, legend, or romance of such towns at night,
wherever they may play.
In one of the public grounds to which the Class went for an evening
rest, one of the bands was playing the _Fremersberg_.
It related an old romance of the region of Baden-Baden: how that a
nobleman was once wandering with his dogs in the mountains, and was
overtaken by a storm; how he was about to perish when he heard the
distant sounds of a monastery bell; how, following the direction of
the sound, he heard a chant of priests; and how, at last, he was
saved.
The piece was full of melody. The wind, the rain, the horns, the
bells, the chant, while they told a story, were all delightfully
melodious.
The ballad is almost banished from the intellectual American
concert-rooms. In Germany a ballad is a gem, and is so valued. It is
the best expression of national life and feeling.
The Class went to hear one of Germany's greatest singers. She sang an
heroic selection, and was recalled. Her first words on the recall
hushed the audience: it was a ballad of the four stages of life. It
began with an incident of a child dreaming under a rosebush:--
"Sweetly it sleeps and on dream wings flies
To play with the angels in Paradise,
And the years glide by."
as an English translation gives it.
In the last stanza, the child having passed through the stages of
life, was represented as again sleeping under a rosebush. The withered
leaves fall upon his grave.
"Withered and dead they fall to the ground,
And silently cover a new-made mound,
And the years glide by."
These last lines were rendered so softly, yet distinctly, that they
seemed like tremulous sounds in the air. The singer's face hardly
appeared to move; every listener was like a statue. The silence was
almost painful and impressive. One could but feel this was indeed art,
and not a pretentious affectation of it.
[Illustration: AN OLD GERMAN TOWN.]
The reign of the organ as the monarch of musical instruments began
with Charlemagne, and nearly all of the towns on the Rhine have
historic organs. Many of the organ pieces are local compositions
and imitative. On the great organs at Basle and Frieburg the
imitation of storms is sometimes produced.
None of these storm-pieces, however, equal that which is daily played
in summer on the organ of Lucerne. This organ tempest more greatly
excited the Class than any music that they heard during their
journeys; and Master Beal made a record of it in verse, which we give
at the close of the chapter.
The children of Germany learn to read music at the same age that
they learn to read books. Music is a part of their primary
school--Kindergarten--education. The poorest children are taught to
sing.
[Illustration: THE RHINEFELS.]
The consequence is that the Germans are a nation of singers. The organ
is a power in the church, the military band at the festival, and the
ballad in the concert-room and the home.
These ballad-loving people are familiar with the best music. To them
music is a language. Says Mayhew, in his elaborate work on the Rhine,
in speaking of the free education in music in Germany: "To tickle the
gustatory nerves with either dainty food or drink costs some money;
but to be able to reproduce the harmonious combinations of a Beethoven
or a Weber, or to make the air tremble melodiously with some sweet and
simple ballad, or even to recall the sonorous solemnities of some
prayerful chorus or fine thanksgiving in an oratorio, is not only to
fill the heart and brain with affections too deep for words, but it is
to be able to taste as high a pleasure as the soul is capable of
knowing, and yet one that may be had positively for nothing."
It is to be regretted that so much of the good music of Germany is
performed in the beer-gardens. The too free use of the glass and the
pipe cannot tend to make the nation strong for the future; and one
cannot long be charmed with the music and mirth of such places without
fearing for the losses that may follow.
All trades and occupations have their own songs, even the humblest.
Take for example the pleasing Miller's Song, which catches the spirit
of his somewhat poetic yet homely calling:--
"To wander is the miller's joy,
To wander!
What kind of miller must he be,
Who ne'er hath yearned to wander free?
To wander!
"From water we have learned it, yes,
From water!
It knows no rest by night or day,
But wanders ever on its way,
Does water.
"We see it by the mill-wheels, too,
The mill-wheels!
They ne'er repose, nor brook delay,
They weary not the livelong day,
The mill-wheels.
"The stones, too, heavy though they be,
The stones, too,
Round in the giddy circle dance,
Ee'n fain more quickly would advance,
The stones would.
"To wander, wander, my delight,
To wander!
O master, mistress, on my way
Let me in peace depart to-day,
And wander!"
WILHELM MUeLLER.
The watchman, too, has his peculiar songs. One of these is very solemn
and stately. A favorite translation of it begins:--
"Hark ye, neighbors, and hear me tell
_Eight_ now strikes the loud church bell."
An almost literal translation thus reproduces the grand themes which
were made to remind the old guardians of the night in their ghostly
vigils:--
THE WATCHMAN'S SONG.
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of eight, good sirs, has struck.
Eight souls alone from death were kept,
When God the earth with deluge swept:
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of nine, good sirs, has struck.
Nine lepers cleansed returned not;--
Be not thy blessings, man, forgot!
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of ten, good sirs, has struck.
Ten precepts show God's holy will;--
Oh, may we prove obedient still!
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour eleven, good sirs, has struck.
Eleven apostles remained true;--
May we be like that faithful few!
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of twelve, good sirs, has struck.
Twelve is of Time the boundary;--
Man, think upon eternity!
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of one, good sirs, has struck.
One God alone reigns over all;
Nought can without his will befall:
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of two, good sirs, has struck.
Two ways to walk has man been given:
Teach me the right,--the path to heaven!
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of three, good sirs, has struck.
Three Gods in one, exalted most,
The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of four, good sirs, has struck.
Four seasons crown the farmer's care;--
Thy heart with equal toil prepare!
Up, up! awake, nor slumber on!
The morn approaches, night is gone!
Thank God, who by his power and might
Has watched and kept us through this night!
The Class devoted an autumn evening to singing the songs of the Rhine;
the "Watch on the Rhine," the "Loreley," the student-songs,
folk-songs, and some of the chorals of Luther. The song that proved
most inspiring was the "Wild Chase of Luetzow." Master Beal awakened a
deep interest in this song before it was sung, by relating its
history.
"THE WILD HUNT OF LUeTZOW."
All musical ears are familiar with the refrain: "Yes, 'tis the hunt
of Luetzow the free and the bold,"--if not with these exact words,
with other words of the same meaning. The music of C. M. Von Weber
has carried the "hunt" of Luetzow over the world. The song and music
alike catch the spirit and the movement of a corps of cavalry bent
on the destruction of an enemy. One sees the flying horsemen in the
poem, and hears them in the music. It was one of the few martial
compositions that starts one to one's feet, and stirs one's blood
with the memory of heroic achievements.
I will give you one of the most vigorous translations. Longfellow
has adopted it in his "Poems of Places." It catches the spirit of
the original, and very nearly reproduces the original thought.
LUeTZOW'S WILD CHASE.
What gleams from yon wood in the bright sunshine?
Hark! nearer and nearer 'tis sounding;
It hurries along, black line upon line,
And the shrill-voiced horns in the wild chase join,
The soul with dark horror confounding:
And if the black troopers' name you'd know,
'Tis Luetzow's wild Jaeger,--a-hunting they go!
[Illustration: MAYENCE IN THE OLDEN TIME.]
From hill to hill, through the dark wood they hie,
And warrior to warrior is calling;
Behind the thick bushes in ambush they lie,
The rifle is heard, and the loud war-cry,
In rows the Frank minions are falling:
And if the black troopers' name you'd know,
'Tis Luetzow's wild Jaeger,--a-hunting they go!
Where the bright grapes glow, and the Rhine rolls wide,
He weened they would follow him never;
But the pursuit came like the storm in its pride,
With sinewy arms they parted the tide,
And reached the far shore of the river;
And if the dark swimmers' name you'd know,
'Tis Luetzow's wild Jaeger,--a-hunting they go!
How roars in the valley the angry fight;
Hark! how the keen swords are clashing!
High-hearted Ritter are fighting the fight,
The spark of Freedom awakens bright,
And in crimson flames it is flashing:
And if the dark Ritters' name you'd know,
'Tis Luetzow's wild Jaeger,--a-hunting they go!
Who gurgle in death, 'mid the groans of the foe,
No more the bright sunlight seeing?
The writhings of death on their face they show,
But no terror the hearts of the freemen know.
For the Franzmen are routed and fleeing;
And if the dark heroes' name you'd know,
'Tis Luetzow's wild Jaeger,--a-hunting they go!
The chase of the German, the chase of the free,
In hounding the tyrant we strained it!
Ye friends, that love us, look up with glee!
The night is scattered, the dawn we see,
Though we with our life-blood have gained it!
And from sire to son the tale shall go:
'Twas Luetzow's wild Jaeger that routed the foe!
Luetzow, the cavalry hero of Prussia, in the German war for freedom
against the rule of Napoleon, was born in 1782. He was a famous
hunter, and when Europe arose against Bonaparte in 1813, he called
for volunteers of adventurous spirit for cavalry service: "hunters"
of the enemy, who should hang about the French army, and, with the
destructive vigilance of birds or beasts of prey, give the enemy no
rest on the German side of the Rhine.
The boldest young men of Germany rushed to Luetzow; noblemen,
students, foresters. His corps of cavalry became the terror of the
French army. The enemy could never tell where they would be found.
Among the young volunteers was Koerner, the young German poet. He was
a slender young man; but he had an heroic soul, and the cavalry
corps of the fiery Luetzow seemed to him the place for it. He joined
the "wild hunters" in 1813.
"Germany rises," he said. "The Prussian eagle beats her wings; there
is hope of freedom.
"I know what happiness can fruit for me in life; I know that the
star of fortune shines upon me; but a mighty feeling and conviction
animates me: no sacrifice can be too great for my country's
freedom!"
The words glow.
He added,--
"I must forth,--I must oppose my breast to the storm. Can I
celebrate the deeds of others in song, and not dare with them the
danger?"
Koerner's battle-songs became firebrands. He consecrated himself to
his country in the village church near Zobten. He wrote the
battle-hymn for the occasion, which was a service for the departing
volunteers.
"We swore," he said, "the oath of fidelity to our cause. I fell upon
my knees and implored God's blessing. The oath was repeated by all,
and the officers swore it on their swords. Then Martin Luther's 'A
Mighty Fortress is our God' concluded the ceremony."
He wrote a thrilling war-song on the morning of the battle of
Danneberg, May 12, 1813. It ended with these words:--
"Hark! hear ye the shouts and the thunders before ye?
On, brothers, on, to death and to glory!
We'll meet in another, a happier sphere!"
On May 28, 1813, Major Von Luetzow determined to set out on an
expedition towards Thuringia, with his young cavalry and with
Cossacks. Koerner begged to accompany him. Luetzow commissioned him as
an officer. He was wounded, and left for a time helpless in a wood,
on the 17th of June. In this condition he wrote his famous "Farewell
to Life."
"My deep wound burns," &c.
Koerner recovered, but was suddenly killed in an engagement on August
26th.
The "Sword Song" of Koerner which Von Weber's music has made famous,
was written a few hours before his death. It was an inspiration to
the German cause.
"Luetzow's Wild Chase" thrilled Prussia. Like the "Watch on the
Rhine" in the recent war, it was the word that fired the national
pride, and nerved men to deeds that crowned the cause with glory.
"The Rhine! the Rhine!" shouted the young German heroes at last,
looking down on the river.
"Is there a battle?" asked the officers, dashing on in the direction
of the shout.
"No, the enemy has gone over the Rhine," was the answer. "The Rhine!
the Rhine!"
Mr. Beal introduced a number of selections from German composers, the
loved tone-poets, with interesting stories and anecdotes. We reproduce
a part of these musical incidents, as they properly belong to the
history of the river of song.
Taking up a selection from Schubert's famous symphony, he spoke
feelingly of the author, and then gave some pictures of the lives of
Beethoven and Bach.
THE AUTHOR OF THE ERL KING.
Poor Schubert! The composer of what operas, symphonies, overtures,
choruses, masses, cantatas, sonatas, fantasias, arias! What
tenderness was in his soul!--Listen to the "Last Greeting;" what
fancy and emotion! listen to the "Fisher Maiden" and "Post Horn;"
what refinement! listen to the "Serenade;" what devotion! hear the
"Ave Maria"!
Dead at the age of thirty-one; dead after a life of neglect, leaving
all these musical riches behind him!
Franz Schubert was born at Himmelpfortgrand, in 1797. His father was
a musician, but a poor man. Franz was placed at the age of eleven
among the choir-boys of the Court Chapel, where he remained five
years, absorbed in musical studies, and making himself the master of
the leading instruments of the orchestra.
To compose music was his life. His restless genius was ever at work;
always seeking to produce something new, something better. The old
masters, and especially Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, were his
sources of study and inspiration. Music became his world, and all
outside of it was strange and unexplored. All of his moods found
expression in music: his love, his hopes, his wit, his sadness, and
his dreams.
He seems to have composed his best works for the pure love of his
art, with little thought of money or fame. Many of his best works he
never heard performed. He left his manuscript scores scattered about
his rooms, and so they were found in confusion after his decease.
A monument was erected to his memory. On it is the following simple
but touching inscription:--
"The art of music buried here a rich possession, but yet
far fairer hopes. Franz Schubert lies here. Born on the
30th of January, 1797, died on the 19th of November,
1828, thirty-one years old."
Fame almost failed to overtake him in life; his course was so rapid,
and his works were so swiftly produced. It crowned his memory.
Schubert's magnificent symphony in C is one of the most beautiful
works of the kind ever written, and lovers of orchestral music
always delight to find it on the programme of an evening concert. It
is a charm, an enchantment; it awakens feelings that are only active
in the soul under exceptional influences. Yet the listener does not
know to what he is listening: it is all a mystery; no one can tell
what the composer intended to express by this symphony. We know that
the theme is a noble one,--but what? that the soul of the writer
must have been powerfully moved during its composition,--by what
influences? It is an enigma: each listener may guess at the theme,
and each will associate it with the subject most in harmony with his
own taste.
In 1844 Robert Schumann, while looking over a heap of dusty
manuscripts at Vienna, found this wonderful symphony, until then
unknown. He was so much charmed with it that he sent it to
Mendelssohn at Leipzig. It was there produced at the Gewandhaus
concerts, won the admiration it deserved, and thence found its way
to all the orchestras of the world. The youthful composer had been
dead nearly twenty years when the discovery was made.
One of the best known of the dramatic German ballads is the Erl
King.
The Erl King is Death. He rides through the night. He comes to a
happy home, and carries away a child, galloping back to the
mysterious land whence he came.
In this ballad a father is represented as riding with a dying child
under his cloak. The Erl King pursues them.
Schubert gave the ballad its musical wings. I need not describe the
music. It is on your piano. Let it tell the story.
BEETHOVEN'S BOYHOOD AT BONN.
Literary men have often produced their best works late in life.
Longfellow cites some striking illustrations of this truth in
_Morituri Salutamus_:--
"It is too late! Ah, nothing is too late
Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles
Wrote his grand Oedipus, and Simonides
Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers,
When each had numbered more than fourscore years.
And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten,
Had but begun his Characters of Men.
Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales,
At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales;
Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last,
Completed Faust when eighty years were past."
Such examples of late working are seldom found in musical art. Men
seem to become musicians because of the inspiration born within
them. This impelling force is very early developed.
Handel, the greatest musical composer of his own or any age, was so
devoted to music in childhood that his father forbade his musical
studies. At the age of eleven he as greatly delighted and surprised
Frederick I. of Prussia by his inspirational playing; he was in
youth appointed to a conspicuous position of organist in Halle.
Haydn surprised his friends by his musical talents at his _fifth_
year. He had a voice of wonderful purity, sweetness, and compass,
and was received as a choir-boy at St. Stephen's Church, Vienna.
Mozart's childhood is a household story. He was able to produce
chords on the harpsichord at the age of three, and wrote music with
correct harmonies at the age of six. Glueck had made a musical
reputation at the age of eighteen.
Mendelssohn was a brilliant pianist at six, and gave concerts at
nine. Verdi was appointed musical director at Milan in youth.
Rossini composed an opera at the age of sixteen, and ceased to
compose music at forty.
No other art exhibits such remarkable developments of youthful
genius; though many eminent poets like Pindar, Cowley, Pope, Mrs.
Hemans, L. E. L., have written well in early youth. Music is a
flower that blossoms early, and bears early fruit.
Music may justly be called the art of youth.
Beethoven was born at Bonn on the Rhine, 1770. He lived here
twenty-two years. His musical character was formed here.
Beethoven was put at the harpsichord at the age of four years. He
was able to play the most difficult music in every key at twelve
years; and was appointed one of the court organists when fifteen.
The boy received this appointment, which was in the chapel of the
Elector of Cologne, by the influence of Count Waldstein, who had
discovered his genius. Here he was the organ prince.
The following curious anecdote is told of his skill at the organ:--
"On the last three days of the passion week the Lamentations of the
Prophet Jeremiah were always chanted; these consisted of passages of
from four to six lines, and they were sung in no particular time. In
the middle of each sentence, agreeably to the old choral style, a
_rest_ was made upon one note, which rest the player on the piano
(for the organ was not used on those three days) had to fill up with
a voluntary flourish.
[Illustration: BEETHOVEN'S HOME AT BONN.]
"Beethoven told Heller, a singer at the chapel who was boasting of
his professional cleverness, that he would engage, that very day, to
put him out, at such a place, without his being aware of it, so that
he should not be able to proceed. He accepted the wager; and
Beethoven, when he came to a passage that suited his purpose, led
the singer, by an adroit modulation, out of the prevailing mode into
one having no affinity with it, still, however, adhering to the
tonic of the former key; so that the singer, unable to find his way
in this strange region was brought to a dead stand.
"Exasperated by the laughter of those around him, Heller complained
to the elector, who (to use Beethoven's expression) 'gave him a most
gracious reprimand, and bade him not play any more such clever
tricks.'"
At Bonn young Beethoven devoted himself almost wholly to the organ.
The memories of the Rhine filled his life, which ended so sadly on
the Danube. Bonn and Beethoven are as one name to the English or
American tourist.
THE FATHER OF ORGAN MUSIC.
Bach, the greatest organist and composer of organ music of the last
century, was born at Eisenach, 1685, and had truly a remarkable
history. His art was born in him. He wrote because he must write,
and sung because he must sing.
His father was a court musician, and had a twin brother who occupied
the same situation, and so much resembled him that their wives could
not tell them apart. These twin brothers produced music nearly
alike; their dispositions were identical; when one was ill, the
other was so likewise, and both died at the same time.
John Sebastian Bach was the brightest ornament of this music-loving
family. His parents died in his boyhood, and his musical education
was undertaken by his eldest brother, a distinguished organist. He
fed on music as food.
An incident will show his spirit. He was eager to play more
difficult music than his brother assigned. He noticed that his
brother had a book of especially difficult pieces; and he begged to
be allowed to use it, but was denied. This book was kept locked in a
cupboard, which had an opening just wide enough to admit the boy's
thin hand. He was able to reach it, and, by rolling it in a certain
way, to bring it out and replace it without unlocking the door. He
began to copy it by moonlight, as no candle was allowed him in the
evening, and in six months had reproduced in this manner the whole
of the music. About this time his brother died, and the friendless
lad engaged himself as a choir-singer, which gave him a temporary
support.
Organ-music became a passion with him. He determined, at whatever
sacrifice, to make himself the master of the instrument. He might go
hungry, lose the delights of society; but the first organist in
Germany he would be: nothing should be allowed to stand in the way
of this purpose in life. He studied all masters. He made a long
journey on foot to Lubeck to hear a great German master play the
organ; and when he heard him, he remained three months an unknown
and secret auditor in the church.
A youth in which a single aim governs life early arrives at the
harvest. Young manhood found Bach court organist in that Athens of
Germany, Weimar. His fame grew until it reached the ears of
Frederick the Great.
"Old Bach has come," joyfully said the King to his musicians, on
learning that the great organist arrived in town.
He became blind in his last years, as did Handel. Ten days before
his death his sight was suddenly restored, and he rejoiced at seeing
the sunshine and the green earth again. A few hours after this
strange occurrence, he was seized with an apoplectic fit. He died at
the age of sixty-eight.
His organ-playing was held to be one of the marvels of Germany. He
made the organ as it were a part of his own soul; it expressed his
thoughts like an interpreter, and swayed other hearts with the
emotions of his own. His oratorios and cantatas were numbered by the
hundred, many of which were produced only on a single occasion. His
most enduring work is the Passion Music.
In 1850 a Bach Society was formed in London, and a revival of the
works of the master followed. Bach wrote five passions, but only one
for two choirs.
To the general audience much of the Passion music, as arranged for
English choral societies, seems too difficult for appreciation; but
the over-choir at the beginning, the expression of suffering and
darkness, and the so-called earthquake choruses, with its sudden and
stupendous effects, impress even the uneducated ear.
The beauty and power of the oratorio as a work of art are felt in
proportion to one's musical training; but as a sublime tone-sermon,
all may feel its force, and dream that the awful tragedy it
represents is passing before them.
[Illustration: A CITY OF THE RHINE.]
THE ORGAN-TEMPEST OF LUCERNE.
We came to fair Lucerne at even,--
How beauteous was the scene!
The snowy Alps like walls of heaven
Rose o'er the Alps of green;
The damask sky a roseate light
Flashed on the Lake, and low
Above Mt. Pilate's shadowy height
Night bent her silver bow.
We turned towards the faded fane,
How many centuries old!
And entered as the organ's strain
Along the arches rolled;
Such as when guardian spirits bear
A soul to realms of light,
And melts in the immortal air
The anthem of their flight;
Then followed strains so sweet,
So sadly sweet and low,
That they seemed like memory's music,
And the chords of long ago.
A light wind seemed to rise;
A deep gust followed soon,
As when a dark cloud flies
Across the sun, at noon.
It filled the aisles,--each drew
His garments round his form;
We could not feel the wind that blew,
We could only hear the storm.
Then we cast a curious eye
Towards the window's lights,
And saw the lake serenely lie
Beneath the crystal heights.
Fair rose the Alps of white
Above the Alps of green,
The slopes lay bright in the sun of night,
And the peaks in the sun unseen.
A deep sound shook the air,
As when the tempest breaks
Upon the peaks, while sunshine fair
Is dreaming in the lakes.
The birds shrieked on their wing;
When rose a wind so drear,
Its troubled spirit seemed to bring
The shades of darkness near.
We looked towards the windows old,
Calm was the eve of June,
On the summits shone the twilight's gold,
And on Pilate shone the moon.
A sharp note's lightning flash
Upturned the startled face;
When a mighty thunder-crash
With horror filled the place!
From arch to arch the peal
Was echoed loud and long;
Then o'er the pathway seemed to steal
Another seraph's song;
And 'mid the thunder's crash
And the song's enraptured flow,
We still could hear, with charmed ear,
The organ playing low.
[Illustration: THE RIVER OF SONG.]
As passed the thunder-peal,
Came raindrops, falling near,
A rain one could not feel,
A rain that smote the ear.
And we turned to look again
Towards the mountain wall,
When a deep tone shook the fane,
Like the avalanche's fall.
Loud piped the wind, fast poured the rain,
The very earth seemed riven,
And wildly flashed, and yet again,
The smiting fires of heaven.
And cheeks that wore the light of smiles
When slowly rose the gale,
Like pulseless statues lined the aisles
And, as forms of marble, pale.
The organ's undertones
Still sounded sweet and low,
And the calm of a more than mortal trust
With the rhythms seemed to flow.
The Master's mirrored face
Was lifted from the keys,
As if more holy was the place
As he touched the notes of peace.
Then the sympathetic reeds
His chastened spirit caught,
As the senses met the needs
And the touch of human thought.
The organ whispered sweet,
The organ whispered low,
"Fear not, God's love is with thee,
Though tempests round thee blow!"
And the soul's grand power 'twas ours to trace,
And its deathless hopes discern,
As we gazed that night on the living face
Of the Organ of Lucerne.
Then from the church it passed,
That strange and ghostly storm,
And a parting beam the twilight cast
Through the windows, bright and warm.
The music grew more clear,
Our gladdened pulses swaying,
When Alpine horns we seemed to hear
On all the hillsides playing.
We left the church--how fair
Stole on the eve of June!
Cool Righi in the dusky air,
The low-descending moon!
No breath the lake cerulean stirred,
No cloud could eye discern;
The Alps were silent,--we had heard
The Organ of Lucerne.
Soon passed the night,--the high peaks shone
A wall of glass and fire,
And Morning, from her summer zone,
Illumined tower and spire;
I walked beside the lake again,
Along the Alpine meadows,
Then sought the old melodious fane
Beneath the Righi's shadows.
The organ, spanned by arches quaint,
Rose silent, cold, and bare,
Like the pulseless tomb of a vanished saint:--
The Master was not there!
But the soul's grand power 'twas mine to trace
And its deathless hopes discern,
As I gazed that morn on the still, dead face
Of the Organ of Lucerne.