Poems (Dorr)/A Dream of Songs Unsung

by Julia Caroline Dorr

A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG

Whence it came I did not know,
How it came I could not tell,
But I heard the music flow
Like 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 poured
Yet a fuller, stronger strain,
Till my soul in rapture soared
Out 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 know
Where thy golden lilies blow?
Land of shadows, on what star
In 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 portals
With the holy chrism to-day,
One of all thy high immortals
Who shall teach me what to say!

O beloveds, all the air
Was a faint, ethereal mist
Touched with rose and amethyst—
Glints of gold, and here and there
Purple '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 dim
To the far horizon's rim;
And the landscape stretched away,
Fair, illusive, like a dream
Wherein all things do but seem!
There were mountains, but they rose
O'er the subtile vale's repose,
Light as clouds that far and high
Soar to meet the untroubled sky.
There were trees that overhead
Wide their sheltering branches spread,
Yet were empty as the shade
By the quivering vine-leaves made.
There were roses, rich with bloom,
Swinging censers of perfume
Sweet as fragrant winds of May
Blowing through spring's secret bowers;
Yet so phantom-like were they
That they seemed the ghosts of flowers.
Oh, the music sweet and strange
In that land's enchanted range!
Like the pealing of the bells
When the brazen flowers are swinging
And the angelus is ringing,
Soaring, echoing, far and near,
Through the vales and up the dells—
Softly on the enraptured ear
A melodious murmur swells!
As the rhythm of the river
Day and night goes on forever,
So that pulsing stream of song
Rolls its silver waves along.
Even silence is but sound,
Deeper, softer, more profound!

All the portals were thrown wide!
Stretching far on either side
Ran 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 one
Standing by me in the dun,
Gray half-twilight. All the place
Grew softly radiant; but his face,
Albeit unveiled, I could not see
For the awe that compassed me.
Swift I spoke, by longings swayed
Deeper 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 lay
Dreaming 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 bird
Where Spring's far-off voice is heard.
Tell me, Master, where am I?"
"Thou art in the border-land,
On the farthest, utmost strand
Of the sea that lies between
All that is and is not seen.
Thou art where the wraiths of song
Come and go, a phantom throng.
'Tis their heart's melodious beat
Fills the air with whispers sweet!
These, O child, are songs unsung—
Songs unbreathed by human tongue;
These are they that all in vain
Mightiest masters wooed amain—
Children of their heart and brain
That they could not warm to life
By their being's utmost strife.
Every bard that ever sung
Since the hoary earth was young
Knew the song he could not sing
Was his soul's best blossoming,
Knew the thought he could not hold
Shrined his spirit's purest gold.
Look!"
Look!"Where rose the city's gate
In majestic, sculptured state,
From a far-off battle-plain,
Through the javelins' silver rain
Bearing 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 filled
When their mighty souls were thrilled
By old Homer's golden lyre!

Under dim cathedral arches
Pacing sad, pacing slow,
As to beat of funeral marches
Or 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 crept
O'er harp-strings deftly swept,
And organ-thunders rolled
Like storm-winds through the wold,
They stood in strength sublime
Beyond the bounds of time—
They who had been a part
Of Milton's mighty heart!

And where, mysterious ones,
Are Shakespeare's princely sons,
Bearing in lavish hands
The spoil of many lands?
From castles lifted far
Against the evening star,
Where royal banners float
O'er rampart, tower, and moat,
And the white moonlight sleeps
Upon the Donjon keeps;
From fairy-haunted dells
Among the lonely fells;
From banks where wild thyme grows
And the blue violet blows;
From caverns grim, and caves
Lashed 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 cells
The scholar trims his lamp—
Wearing the sword, the gown,
The motley of the clown,
The beggar's rags, the dole
Of the remorseful soul,
The wedding-robe, the ring,
The shroud's white blossoming,
O myriad-minded man,
Thus thine immortal clan
Passed down the endless ways
Of the eternal days!

Then said I to my spirit:
"These are they who wore the crown3
Well the king's sons may inherit
All his glory and renown.
Where are they—the songs unsung
By the humbler bards whose lyres
Through earth's lowly vales have rung,
Like the notes of woodland choirs?
They whose silver-sandalled feet
Never climbed the clouds to meet?"

Where?—The air grew full of laughter
Low and sweet, and following after
Came the softest breath of singing
As 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 faces
Swept the shadowy minstrel bands!

Songs unsung, the high and lowly,
Songs, the holy and unholy,
In that purest air grown wholly
Clean from every spot and stain!
And I knew as endless ages
Still 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!