BACH'S SECOND CONCERTO[1]
What fresh and breezy joyousness is here,
What youthful spirit, what rapture of delight,
What scorn of baseness, what contempt of fear!
How doth it put all sombre thoughts to flight!
Once more the world is full of old romance,
Once more the jarring keys are all in tune,
Once more in woodland scenes the fairies dance,
And desolate winter turns to glorious June!
Ah! could man's life to such a tune be set,
Its dull beat changed for these exultant strains,
What room were there for sorrow or regret,
Or who could doubt that God exists and reigns! . . .
What youthful spirit, what rapture of delight,
What scorn of baseness, what contempt of fear!
How doth it put all sombre thoughts to flight!
Once more the world is full of old romance,
Once more the jarring keys are all in tune,
Once more in woodland scenes the fairies dance,
And desolate winter turns to glorious June!
Ah! could man's life to such a tune be set,
Its dull beat changed for these exultant strains,
What room were there for sorrow or regret,
Or who could doubt that God exists and reigns! . . .
The music dies—and I am sad again,
But with a tenderer grief, a milder pain.
But with a tenderer grief, a milder pain.
AFTER A CONCERT
'Tis o'er—and where has gone the melody
That filled my soul with such supreme delight?
Have golden chords like these fled utterly
Into the still and unresponsive night?
Will they no more my drooping thoughts upstay
In days to come when dark despondence reigns?
Will they no more illumine life's dull grey,
No more bring solace for its many pains?
That filled my soul with such supreme delight?
Have golden chords like these fled utterly
Into the still and unresponsive night?
Will they no more my drooping thoughts upstay
In days to come when dark despondence reigns?
Will they no more illumine life's dull grey,
No more bring solace for its many pains?
Content thyself: two golden hours is much
To snatch from out the niggard hands of fate;
Ask not for more lest it exact for such
Of dull discouragement a double rate:
Yet to you shall a melody be known
From memory drawn: a dulcet undertone.
To snatch from out the niggard hands of fate;
Ask not for more lest it exact for such
Of dull discouragement a double rate:
Yet to you shall a melody be known
From memory drawn: a dulcet undertone.
- ↑ This Concerto belongs to a set written at Coethen in
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