CHAPTER XIV.
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 givenit its fame. Every town on the Rhine has its own songs; everymountain, hill, and river.
America has few local songs,--few songs of the people. The singers whogive voices to rivers, lakes, mountains, and valleys have not yetappeared. The local poets and singers of America are yet to come.
In England, Germany, and some of the provinces of France, everytemple, stream, and grove has had its sweet singer.
Go to Basle, and you may hear the clubs singing the heroic songs ofAlsace and Lorraine.
Go to Heidelberg, and you may listen to student-songs through whichbreathe 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 eveningrest, one of the bands was playing the _Fremersberg_.
It related an old romance of the region of Baden-Baden: how that anobleman was once wandering with his dogs in the mountains, and wasovertaken by a storm; how he was about to perish when he heard thedistant sounds of a monastery bell; how, following the direction ofthe sound, he heard a chant of priests; and how, at last, he wassaved.
The piece was full of melody. The wind, the rain, the horns, thebells, the chant, while they told a story, were all delightfullymelodious.
The ballad is almost banished from the intellectual Americanconcert-rooms. In Germany a ballad is a gem, and is so valued. It isthe best expression of national life and feeling.
The Class went to hear one of Germany's greatest singers. She sang anheroic selection, and was recalled. Her first words on the recallhushed the audience: it was a ballad of the four stages of life. Itbegan 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 oflife, was represented as again sleeping under a rosebush. The witheredleaves 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 theyseemed like tremulous sounds in the air. The singer's face hardlyappeared to move; every listener was like a statue. The silence wasalmost painful and impressive. One could but feel this was indeed art,and not a pretentious affectation of it.
AN OLD GERMAN TOWN.]
The reign of the organ as the monarch of musical instruments beganwith Charlemagne, and nearly all of the towns on the Rhine havehistoric organs. Many of the organ pieces are local compositionsand imitative. On the great organs at Basle and Frieburg theimitation of storms is sometimes produced.
None of these storm-pieces, however, equal that which is daily playedin summer on the organ of Lucerne. This organ tempest more greatlyexcited the Class than any music that they heard during theirjourneys; and Master Beal made a record of it in verse, which we giveat the close of the chapter.
The children of Germany learn to read music at the same age thatthey learn to read books. Music is a part of their primaryschool--Kindergarten--education. The poorest children are taught tosing.
THE RHINEFELS.]
The consequence is that the Germans are a nation of singers. The organis a power in the church, the military band at the festival, and theballad in the concert-room and the home.
These ballad-loving people are familiar with the best music. To themmusic is a language. Says Mayhew, in his elaborate work on the Rhine,in speaking of the free education in music in Germany: "To tickle thegustatory nerves with either dainty food or drink costs some money;but to be able to reproduce the harmonious combinations of a Beethovenor a Weber, or to make the air tremble melodiously with some sweet andsimple ballad, or even to recall the sonorous solemnities of someprayerful chorus or fine thanksgiving in an oratorio, is not only tofill the heart and brain with affections too deep for words, but it isto be able to taste as high a pleasure as the soul is capable ofknowing, and yet one that may be had positively for nothing."
It is to be regretted that so much of the good music of Germany isperformed in the beer-gardens. The too free use of the glass and thepipe cannot tend to make the nation strong for the future; and onecannot long be charmed with the music and mirth of such places withoutfearing 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 spiritof 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 solemnand 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 whichwere made to remind the old guardians of the night in their ghostlyvigils:--
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 provedmost inspiring was the "Wild Chase of Luetzow." Master Beal awakened adeep interest in this song before it was sung, by relating itshistory.
"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!
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, theloved tone-poets, with interesting stories and anecdotes. We reproducea part of these musical incidents, as they properly belong to thehistory of the river of song.
Taking up a selection from Schubert's famous symphony, he spokefeelingly of the author, and then gave some pictures of the lives ofBeethoven 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 Himmelpfort
grand, 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.
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 boo
k 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.
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.
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.