Poems (Dorr)/A Dream of Songs Unsung
A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG
Whence it came I did not know,How it came I could not tell,But I heard the music flowLike the pealing of a bell;Up and down the wild-wood arches,Through the sombre firs and larches,Long I heard it rise and swell;Long I lay, with half-shut eyes,Wrapped in dreams of Paradise!
Then the wondrous music pouredYet a fuller, stronger strain,Till my soul in rapture soaredOut of reach of toil and pain!Then, oh then, I know not how,Then, oh then, I know not where,I was borne, serene and slow,Through the boundless fields of air—Past the sunset's golden bars,Past long ranks of glittering stars,To a realm where time was not,And its secrets were forgot!
Land of shadows, who may knowWhere thy golden lilies blow?Land of shadows, on what starIn the blue depths shining far,Or in what appointed place In the unmeasured realms of space,High as heaven, or deep as hell,Thou dost lie what tongue can tell?Send from out thy mystic portalsWith the holy chrism to-day,One of all thy high immortalsWho shall teach me what to say!
O beloveds, all the airWas a faint, ethereal mistTouched with rose and amethyst—Glints of gold, and here and therePurple 'splendors that were gone,Like the glory of the dawn,Ere one caught them. Soft and gray,Lit by many a pearly ray,Were the low skies bending dimTo the far horizon's rim;And the landscape stretched away,Fair, illusive, like a dreamWherein all things do but seem!There were mountains, but they roseO'er the subtile vale's repose,Light as clouds that far and highSoar to meet the untroubled sky.There were trees that overheadWide their sheltering branches spread,Yet were empty as the shadeBy the quivering vine-leaves made.There were roses, rich with bloom,Swinging censers of perfumeSweet as fragrant winds of MayBlowing through spring's secret bowers;Yet so phantom-like were theyThat they seemed the ghosts of flowers. Oh, the music sweet and strangeIn that land's enchanted range!Like the pealing of the bellsWhen the brazen flowers are swingingAnd the angelus is ringing,Soaring, echoing, far and near,Through the vales and up the dells—Softly on the enraptured earA melodious murmur swells!As the rhythm of the riverDay and night goes on forever,So that pulsing stream of songRolls its silver waves along.Even silence is but sound,Deeper, softer, more profound!
All the portals were thrown wide!Stretching far on either sideRan the streets, like silver mist,By the moon's pale splendor kissed;And adown the shadowy way,Forth from many a still retreat,One by one, and two by two,Or in goodly companies;Gliding on in long array,Light and fleet, with silent feet,One by one, and two by two,Phantoms that I could not number,Countless as the wraiths of slumber,Passed before my wondering eyes!
Then I grew aware of oneStanding by me in the dun,Gray half-twilight. All the placeGrew softly radiant; but his face, Albeit unveiled, I could not seeFor the awe that compassed me.Swift I spoke, by longings swayedDeeper than my words betrayed:"Master," with clasped hands I prayed,"Who are these? Are they the dead?""Nay, they never lived," he said;"Whence art thou? How camest thou here?"Low I answered, then, in fear:"Sir, I know not; as I layDreaming at the close of day,Wondrous music, thrilling through me,To this land of phantoms drew me,Though I knew not how or why,Even as instinct draws the birdWhere Spring's far-off voice is heard.Tell me, Master, where am I?""Thou art in the border-land,On the farthest, utmost strandOf the sea that lies betweenAll that is and is not seen.Thou art where the wraiths of songCome and go, a phantom throng.'Tis their heart's melodious beatFills the air with whispers sweet!These, O child, are songs unsung—Songs unbreathed by human tongue;These are they that all in vainMightiest masters wooed amain—Children of their heart and brainThat they could not warm to lifeBy their being's utmost strife.Every bard that ever sungSince the hoary earth was youngKnew the song he could not sing Was his soul's best blossoming,Knew the thought he could not holdShrined his spirit's purest gold.Look!"Where rose the city's gateIn majestic, sculptured state,From a far-off battle-plain,Through the javelins' silver rainBearing buckler, lance, and shield,And their standard's glittering field,Eager, yet with shout nor din,Came a great host trooping in.Burned their eyes with martial fire,And the glow of proud desire,Such as gods and hero's filledWhen their mighty souls were thrilledBy old Homer's golden lyre!
Under dim cathedral archesPacing sad, pacing slow,As to beat of funeral marchesOr to music's rhythmic flow—With their solemn brows uplifted,And their hands upon their breasts,Where the deepest shadows drifted,One by one pale phantoms pressed.Lost in dreams of heights supernal,Mystic dreams of Paradise,Or of woful depths infernal, Slow they passed before mine eyes.Oh, the vision's pallid splendor!Oh, the grandeur of their mien—Kin, by birthright proud and tender,To the matchless Florentine! In stately solitude,Whereon might none intrude—Majestic, grand and calm,And bearing each the palm;Dwelling, serene and fair,In most enchanted air,Where softest music creptO'er harp-strings deftly swept,And organ-thunders rolledLike storm-winds through the wold,They stood in strength sublimeBeyond the bounds of time—They who had been a partOf Milton's mighty heart!
And where, mysterious ones,Are Shakespeare's princely sons,Bearing in lavish handsThe spoil of many lands?From castles lifted farAgainst the evening star,Where royal banners floatO'er rampart, tower, and moat,And the white moonlight sleepsUpon the Donjon keeps;From fairy-haunted dellsAmong the lonely fells;From banks where wild thyme growsAnd the blue violet blows;From caverns grim, and cavesLashed by the deep sea-waves;From darkling forest shade,From busy haunts of trade,From market, court, and camp,Where folly rings her bells, Or sorrow tolls her knells,Or where in cloister cellsThe scholar trims his lamp—Wearing the sword, the gown,The motley of the clown,The beggar's rags, the doleOf the remorseful soul,The wedding-robe, the ring,The shroud's white blossoming,O myriad-minded man,Thus thine immortal clanPassed down the endless waysOf the eternal days!
Then said I to my spirit:"These are they who wore the crown3Well the king's sons may inheritAll his glory and renown.Where are they—the songs unsungBy the humbler bards whose lyresThrough earth's lowly vales have rung,Like the notes of woodland choirs?They whose silver-sandalled feetNever climbed the clouds to meet?"
Where?—The air grew full of laughterLow and sweet, and following afterCame the softest breath of singingAs if lily bells were ringing;And from all the happy closes,Crowned with daisies, crowned with roses,Bearing woodland ferns for palm-boughs in their hands,From the dim secluded places,Through the wide enchanted spaces, With their song-illumined facesSwept the shadowy minstrel bands!
Songs unsung, the high and lowly,Songs, the holy and unholy,In that purest air grown whollyClean from every spot and stain!And I knew as endless agesStill were turning life's full pages,Each should find his own again—Find the song he could not sing,As his soul's best blossoming!