Themes and Variations/Franz Schubert
FRANZ SCHUBERT.
(Died 1828.)
[‘Schubert le musicien le plus poête qui fut jamais.’
F. Liszt.]
How many a winter evening have we sped
With thee, dear Master! When the southern blast
Bent all the treetops, like a lapping sail,
And on the hearth the woodfire ceaselessly
Cracked; as when the furze on golden moors
Snaps its brown seed pods in the summer heat.
With thee, dear Master! When the southern blast
Bent all the treetops, like a lapping sail,
And on the hearth the woodfire ceaselessly
Cracked; as when the furze on golden moors
Snaps its brown seed pods in the summer heat.
With thee we wander thro’ the enchanted wood.
The rider presses onward, ever on,
The child clings closer to the father’s arm,
And shudders at the phantom-crowned King.
And then we hear that unforgotten song,—
The Erl King, flitting through the dusty glade,
Singing wild snatches that must haunt the day
Of all who listen to its perilous tune.
The rider presses onward, ever on,
The child clings closer to the father’s arm,
And shudders at the phantom-crowned King.
And then we hear that unforgotten song,—
The Erl King, flitting through the dusty glade,
Singing wild snatches that must haunt the day
Of all who listen to its perilous tune.
Or by lone heath, or clear and rippling wave,
Or whom the hunter winds an airy liorn,
Or with the shepherd lad whose rustic pipe
Laments the beauteous tenant of the glen.
Or whom the hunter winds an airy liorn,
Or with the shepherd lad whose rustic pipe
Laments the beauteous tenant of the glen.
‘The rainbow fleets over her roof-tree,
Her face I no longer can see,
Move onward, ye sheep, then, move onward,—
Full sad your poor shepherd must be!’
Her face I no longer can see,
Move onward, ye sheep, then, move onward,—
Full sad your poor shepherd must be!’
Or gentle Marguerite, her hair unbound,
Sits spinning in the homely chimmey-nook,
Singing so low and sweet of one she loves
When, ah!—the thread is broken and the dream!
And all the fairy music turns to tears.
Sits spinning in the homely chimmey-nook,
Singing so low and sweet of one she loves
When, ah!—the thread is broken and the dream!
And all the fairy music turns to tears.
Or by the stream we move in happier days,
The mill turns on, turns on, by night and day.
The Linden waves and beckons to the stars,
And sunny dreams play round the sleeper’s head.
The mill turns on, turns on, by night and day.
The Linden waves and beckons to the stars,
And sunny dreams play round the sleeper’s head.
But most of all,—heart-broken; yet divine—
We love the winter journey in the snow.
A winter journey, truly, was the way
To him, who gave this magic ring to men.
Too soon, too soon he reached the hostelry,
Where room was made for him among the graves.
Weary and poor, a solitary guest
He came, but slept in immortality.
We love the winter journey in the snow.
A winter journey, truly, was the way
To him, who gave this magic ring to men.
Too soon, too soon he reached the hostelry,
Where room was made for him among the graves.
Weary and poor, a solitary guest
He came, but slept in immortality.
And now his songs have floated through the world
And found new life, new friends in many lands,
Even here in this green island of the south,
Alien in race, far from his Styrian hills,
We mourn with him in fadeless melody.
And found new life, new friends in many lands,
Even here in this green island of the south,
Alien in race, far from his Styrian hills,
We mourn with him in fadeless melody.
Such music moves upon the verge of day.
The sorrow that will never be consoled,
The dream that may not be interpreted,
The tongue we understand but cannot speak,
The promptings of an unremembered past
Live in his song, and light our thoughts to-day.
The sorrow that will never be consoled,
The dream that may not be interpreted,
The tongue we understand but cannot speak,
The promptings of an unremembered past
Live in his song, and light our thoughts to-day.