PROUD music of the storm!
Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies!
Strong hum of forest tree-tops! Wind of the mountains!
Personified dim shapes! you hidden orchestras!
You serenades of phantoms, with instruments alert,
Blending, with Natures rhythmus, all the tongues of nations;
You chords left us by vast composers! you choruses!
You formless, free, religious dances! you from the Orient!
You undertone of rivers, roar of pouring cataracts;
You sounds from distant guns, with galloping cavalry!
Echoes of camps, with all the different bugle-calls!
Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me powerless,
Entering my lonesome slumber-chamberWhy have you seizd me?
Come forward, O my Soul, and let the rest retire;
Listenlose notit is toward thee they tend;
Parting the midnight, entering my slumber-chamber,
For thee they sing and dance, O Soul.
A festival song!
The duet of the bridegroom and the bridea marriage-march,
With lips of love, and hearts of lovers, filld to the brim with love;
The red-flushd cheeks, and perfumesthe cortege swarming, full of friendly
young and old,
To flutes clear notes, and sounding harps cantabile.
Now loud approaching drums!
Victoria! seest thou in powder-smoke the banners torn but flying? the rout of the
Hearest those shouts of a conquering army?
(Ah, Soul, the sobs of womenthe wounded groaning in agony,
The hiss and crackle of flamesthe blackend ruinsthe embers of cities,
The dirge and desolation of mankind.)
Now airs antique and medieval fill me!
I see and hear old harpers with their harps, at Welsh festivals:
I hear the minnesingers, singing their lays of love,
I hear the minstrels, gleemen, troubadours, of the feudal ages.
Now the great organ sounds,
Tremulouswhile underneath, (as the hid footholds of the earth,
On which arising, rest, and leaping forth, depend,
All shapes of beauty, grace and strengthall hues we know,
Green blades of grass, and warbling birdschildren that gambol and playthe
The strong base stands, and its pulsations intermits not,
Bathing, supporting, merging all the restmaternity of all the rest;
And with it every instrument in multitudes,
The players playingall the worlds musicians,
The solemn hymns and masses, rousing adoration,
All passionate heart-chants, sorrowful appeals,
The measureless sweet vocalists of ages,
And for their solvent setting, Earths own diapason,
Of winds and woods and mighty ocean waves;
A new composite orchestrabinder of years and climesten-fold renewer,
As of the far-back days the poets tellthe Paradiso,
The straying thence, the separation long, but now the wandering done,
The journey done, the Journeyman come home,
And Man and Art, with Nature fused again.
Tutti! for Earth and Heaven!
The Almighty Leader now for me, for once has signald with his wand.
The manly strophe of the husbands of the world,
And all the wives responding.
The tongues of violins!
(I think, O tongues, ye tell this heart, that cannot tell itself;
This brooding, yearning heart, that cannot tell itself.)
Ah, from a little child,
Thou knowest, Soul, how to me all sounds became music;
My mothers voice, in lullaby or hymn;
(The voiceO tender voicesmemorys loving voices!
Last miracle of allO dearest mothers, sisters, voices;)
The rain, the growing corn, the breeze among the long-leavd corn,
The measurd sea-surf, beating on the sand,
The twittering bird, the hawks sharp scream,
The wild-fowls notes at night, as flying low, migrating north or south,
The psalm in the country church, or mid the clustering trees, the open air camp-meeting,
The fiddler in the tavernthe glee, the long-strung sailor-song,
The lowing cattle, bleating sheepthe crowing cock at dawn.
All songs of current lands come sounding round me,
The German airs of friendship, wine and love,
Irish ballads, merry jigs and dancesEnglish warbles,
Chansons of France, Scotch tunesand oer the rest,
Italias peerless compositions.
Across the stage, with pallor on her face, yet lurid passion,
Stalks Norma, brandishing the dagger in her hand.
I see poor crazed Lucias eyes unnatural gleam;
Her hair down her back falls loose and dishevelld.
I see where Ernani, walking the bridal garden,
Amid the scent of night-roses, radiant, holding his bride by the hand,
Hears the infernal call, the death-pledge of the horn.
To crossing swords, and grey hairs bared to heaven,
The clear, electric base and baritone of the world,
The trombone duoLibertad forever!
From Spanish chestnut trees dense shade,
By old and heavy convent walls, a wailing song,
Song of lost lovethe torch of youth and life quenchd in despair,
Song of the dying swanFernandos heart is breaking.
Awaking from her woes at last, retrievd Amina sings;
Copious as stars, and glad as morning light, the torrents of her joy.
(The teeming lady comes!
The lustrious orbVenus contraltothe blooming mother,
Sister of loftiest godsAlbonis self I hear.)
I hear those odes, symphonies, operas;
I hear in the William Tell, the music of an arousd and angry people;
I hear Meyerbeers Huguenots, the Prophet, or Robert;
Gounods Faust, or Mozarts Don Juan.
I hear the dance-music of all nations,
The waltz, (some delicious measure, lapsing, bathing me in bliss;)
The bolero, to tinkling guitars and clattering castanets.
I see religious dances old and new,
I hear the sound of the Hebrew lyre,
I see the Crusaders marching, bearing the cross on high, to the martial clang of cymbals;
I hear dervishes monotonously chanting, interspersd with frantic shouts, as they
around, turning always towards Mecca;
I see the rapt religious dances of the Persians and the Arabs;
Again, at Eleusis, home of Ceres, I see the modern Greeks dancing,
I hear them clapping their hands, as they bend their bodies,
I hear the metrical shuffling of their feet.
I see again the wild old Corybantian dance, the performers wounding each other;
I see the Roman youth, to the shrill sound of flageolets, throwing and catching their
As they fall on their knees, and rise again.
I hear from the Mussulman mosque the muezzin calling;
I see the worshippers within, (nor form, nor sermon, argument, nor word,
But silent, strange, devoutraisd, glowing headsextatic faces.)
I hear the Egyptian harp of many strings,
The primitive chants of the Nile boatmen;
The sacred imperial hymns of China,
To the delicate sounds of the king, (the stricken wood and stone;)
Or to Hindu flutes, and the fretting twang of the vina,
A band of bayaderes.
Now Asia, Africa leave meEurope, seizing, inflates me;
To organs huge, and bands, I hear as from vast concourses of voices,
Luthers strong hymn, Eine feste Burg ist unser Gott;
Rossinis Stabat Mater dolorosa;
Or, floating in some high cathedral dim, with gorgeous colord windows,
The passionate Agnus Dei, or Gloria in Excelsis.
Composers! mighty maestros!
And you, sweet singers of old landsSoprani! Tenori! Bassi!
To you a new bard, carolling free in the west,
Obeisant, sends his love.
(Such led to thee, O Soul!
All senses, shows and objects, lead to thee,
But now, it seems to me, sound leads oer all the rest.)
I hear the annual singing of the children in St. Pauls Cathedral;
Or, under the high roof of some colossal hall, the symphonies, oratorios of Beethoven,
The Creation, in billows of godhood laves me.
Give me to hold all sounds, (I, madly struggling, cry,)
Fill me with all the voices of the universe,
Endow me with their throbbingsNatures also,
The tempests, waters, windsoperas and chantsmarches and dances,
Utterpour infor I would take them all.
Then I woke softly,
And pausing, questioning awhile the music of my dream,
And questioning all those reminiscencesthe tempest in its fury,
And all the songs of sopranos and tenors,
And those rapt oriental dances, of religious fervor,
And the sweet varied instruments, and the diapason of organs,
And all the artless plaints of love, and grief and death,
I said to my silent, curious Soul, out of the bed of the slumber-chamber,
Come, for I have found the clue I sought so long,
Let us go forth refreshd amid the day,
Cheerfully tallying life, walking the world, the real,
Nourishd henceforth by our celestial dream.
And I said, moreover,
Haply, what thou hast heard, O Soul, was not the sound of winds,
Nor dream of raging storm, nor sea-hawks flapping wings, nor harsh scream,
Nor vocalism of sun-bright Italy,
Nor German organ majesticnor vast concourse of voicesnor layers of harmonies;
Nor strophes of husbands and wivesnor sound of marching soldiers,
Nor flutes, nor harps, nor the bugle-calls of camps;
But, to a new rhythmus fitted for thee,
Poems, bridging the way from Life to Death, vaguely wafted in night air, uncaught,
Which, let us go forth in the bold day, and write.