POETRY.
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE.
BY A MODERN.
HENCE, loathed Melody, Thou apish semblance of articulate sound, The world hath done with thee ; No more shall fingers weave thy voluble round, -Jigging Sebastian ; hence, ye shadowy forms, Ye dilettante swarms, Handel or Haydn, powerful erst, In man's fond infancy, Now on the tranced elements hath burst The music of the true, the undefiled, 'Ye snare no more men's hearts by sugared art beguiled.'
Hence, ye cobweb spinners, hence ; Fancy yields to conquering sense :— See ! the great Tanhituser comes, Cymbals clash, sound kettledrums, Now the pipe, the clarion brays, Vocal in Tanhauser's praise.
Scion he of giant brood, Nursling of the savage wood, Playmate of the shaggy bear, Nature's sole interpreter.
Ears he hath for the hidden cry Of the wild wind sweeping by, Skill to phrase in rugged tones What old Ocean hoarsely moans.
Yield, ye sour-lipped critics, yield, See, Tanhauser storms the field ; Cease, ah I cease your droning hum, Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-durn. With your routed legions flee, Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee. Fly, Mozart, Beethoven, fly, Vain your linked panoply,— The sweet web of golden mail, 'Crushed beneath the hero's flail. Music, heavenly maid, is born, Not that false siren, who hath shorn The locks from many a champion's head On her lap of dalliance spread, Which such fell enchantment wrought That their manhood they forgot, Babbled weak and soulless trash, Sentimental balderdash, Lisped in pretty. mincing measures Gilded pinchbeck, tinsel treasures, And the rapturous world was tickled By the dulcet tones that trickled From a lorn lute amorously; Or paled, as tuned to loftiest key, In measured march of awful sound Thunder-music shook the ground.
Slavish fiddlers of old time Toiling at a painful rhyme, Fain to cozen the nice ear With a puling tune, and tear Sense from sentiment apart, So you could but touch the heart. Pshaw ! mere study of effect, That ne'er could reach the intellect.
We can bid each passion thrill 'On a note, and pass at will From grave to gay, from hot to cold, In convolutions manifold.
Rhythmical our movement flows, Slow the varied fabric grows, Of fantastic shape and style, Mazy as a Gothic pile, With pepper-boxes here and there, And crawlings of a random stair. No dull classic Parthenon, With formal pillars of cold stone.
Not such a temple will we build To honour him, whose song bath filled Our rapt spirit with new delight; Hail, Baireuth the favoured site Of our palace, whence shall flow Streams of rhythmic sense that glow With clear metallic lava-heat, And shrivel the flaunting vines that meet Its solid force with wantoning Of tendrils in the buxom spring.
Earth shall soon forget her youth, And the dreams she dreamed were truth Fade before the critic's glass. Our poor fathers ! let them pass With a mild and patient smile ; Their day is o'er ;—their whims beguile Our trained intellect no more. Burn, moderns, burn the hived store Of old experience, musty grown, Doddered eld with eyes of stone, Bid Fancy loose each drivelling thrall And common sense be all in all.
Previous page
