And the clear glass where Shakespeare's shadow falls; A sea this is, beware who ventureth!

For like a ford the narrow floor is laid

Mid-ocean deep sheer to the mountain walls.

Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909]

THE SONNET

I

THE Sonnet is a fruit which long hath slept
And ripened on life's sun-warmed orchard-wall;
A gem which, hardening in the mystical

Mine of man's heart, to quenchless flame hath leapt;
A medal of pure gold art's nympholept
Stamps with love's lips and brows imperial;

A branch from memory's briar, whereon the fall
Of thought-eternalizing tears hath wept:

A star that shoots athwart star-steadfast heaven;
A fluttering aigrette of tossed passion's brine;
A leaf from youth's immortal missal torn;
A bark across dark seas of anguish driven;
A feather dropped from breast-wings aquiline;
A silvery dream shunning red lips of morn.

II

There is no mood, no heart-throb fugitive,
No spark from man's imperishable mind,
No moment of man's will, that may not find
Form in the Sonnet; and thenceforward live
A potent elf, by art's imperative

Magic to crystal spheres of song confined:
As in the moonstone's orb pent spirits wind
'Mid dungeon depths day-beams they take and give.
Spare thou no pains; carve thought's pure diamond
With fourteen facets, scattering fire and light:—
Uncut, what jewel burns but darkly bright?
And Prospero vainly waves his runic wand,
If, spurning art's inexorable law,

In Ariel's prison-sphere he leave one flaw.

III

The Sonnet is a world, where feelings caught
In webs of phantasy, combine and fuse
Their kindred elements 'neath mystic dews
Shed from the ether round man's dwelling wrought;
Distilling heart's content, star-fragrance fraught
With influences from the breathing fires
Of heaven in everlasting endless gyres
Enfolding and encircling orbs of thought.
Our Sonnet's world hath two fixed hemispheres:
This, where the sun with fierce strength masculine
Pours his keen rays and bids the noonday shine;
That, where the moon and the stars, concordant powers,
Shed milder rays, and daylight disappears

In low melodious music of still hours.

John Addington Symonds [1840-1893]

THE RONDEAU

You bid me try, Blue Eyes, to write
A Rondeau. What! Forthwith?-To-night?
Reflect. Some skill I have, 'tis true;

But thirteen lines!-and rhymed on two!-
"Refrain," as well. Ah, hapless plight!
Still, there are five lines-ranged aright.
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright
My easy Muse. They did, till you—
You bid me try!

That makes them eight.-The port's in sight:
'Tis all because your eyes are bright!

Now just a pair to end in "o0,"

When maids command, what can't we do!
Behold! The Rondeau, tasteful, light,

You bid me try!

After the French of Voiture by Austin Dobson [1840

METRICAL FEET

LESSON FOR A BOY

TROCHEE trips from long to short;
From long to long in solemn sort

Slow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yet ill able
Ever to come up with dactyl trisyllable.

Iambics march from short to long;—

With a leap and a bound the swift Anapests throng;
One syllable long, with one short at each side,

Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride;

First and last being long, middle short, Amphimacer Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud highbred racer. Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

ACCIDENT IN ART

WHAT painter has not with a careless smutch
Accomplished his despair?-one touch revealing
All he had put of life, thought, vigor, feeling,
Into the canvas that without that touch
Showed of his love and labor just so much

Raw pigment, scarce a scrap of soul concealing!
What poet has not found his spirit kneeling
A-sudden at the sound of such or such

Strange verses staring from his manuscript,

Written he knows not how, but which will sound
Like trumpets down the years? So Accident

Itself unmasks the likeness of Intent,

And even in blind Chance's darkest crypt

The shrine-lamp of God's purposing is found.

Richard Hovey [1864-1900]

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:

When nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high,
"Arise, ye more than dead!"

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:

From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound:

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell

That spoke so sweetly and so well.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger,

And mortal alarms.
The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!

The soft complaining flute,

In dying notes, discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion,

For the fair, disdainful dame.

But O, what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,

The sacred organ's praise?

Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre;

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared
Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

GRAND CHORUS

As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the Blest above;

So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky!

John Dryden [1631-1700]

ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC; AN ODE IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1697

I

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son—

Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne;

His valiant peers were placed around,

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,

(So should desert in arms be crowned);

The lovely Thais by his side

Sate like a blooming Eastern bride

In flower of youth and beauty's pride: