Harmonies (Howe collection)/The Orchestra

THE ORCHESTRA

Upon the mountain's morning side
The players, all in feathered coats,
On tree-tops swing, in thickets hide,
And sound preliminary notes.

The violinists here and there
Tune all their many strings unseen;
Long sloping tones are in the air,
With pizzicato bits between.

Hark! 't is a flute's roulade so near
That revels gay and unafraid!
And there! the clarinet rings clear
Its mellow trill from yonder glade.

The gentle tappings of a drum
Sound where the beeches thinner grow;
Nearer a humorist is come
Upon his droll bassoon to blow.

And now a 'cello from afar
Breathes out its human, dim appeal—
A voice as from a distant star
Where mortals work their woe and weal.

Then down a sylvan aisle I gaze,
And to my musing sense it seems
A leader mounts a log, and sways
His baton like a man of dreams.

And here behold a marvel wrought!
For marshalled in a concord sweet
The blending fragments all are brought
To tune and harmony complete.

Is it a masterpiece that men
Have heard before—and found it good?
Is this the Rheinland o'er again?
Am I with Siegfried in the wood?

Nay—for this priceless hour 't is mine
To share with Nature's audience
A symphony too rare and fine
For skill of human instruments.

Leader, what music hast thou stirred!
Players, still heed him every one!
And God be thanked for every bird
That sings beneath the May-day sun!