The Symphony.

"O Trade! O Trade! would thou wert dead!     The Time needs heart - 'tis tired of head:     We're all for love," the violins said.     "Of what avail the rigorous tale     Of bill for coin and box for bale?     Grant thee, O Trade! thine uttermost hope:     Level red gold with blue sky-slope,     And base it deep as devils grope:     When all's done, what hast thou won     Of the only sweet that's under the sun?     Ay, canst thou buy a single sigh     Of true love's least, least ecstasy?"     Then, with a bridegroom's heart-beats trembling,     All the mightier strings assembling     Ranged them on the violins' side     As when the bridegroom leads the bride,     And, heart in voice, together cried:     "Yea, what avail the endless tale     Of gain by cunning and plus by sale?     Look up the land, look down the land     The poor, the poor, the poor, they stand     Wedged by the pressing of Trade's hand     Against an inward-opening door     That pressure tightens evermore:     They sigh a monstrous foul-air sigh     For the outside leagues of liberty,     Where Art, sweet lark, translates the sky     Into a heavenly melody.     `Each day, all day' (these poor folks say),     `In the same old year-long, drear-long way,     We weave in the mills and heave in the kilns,     We sieve mine-meshes under the hills,     And thieve much gold from the Devil's bank tills,     To relieve, O God, what manner of ills? -     The beasts, they hunger, and eat, and die;     And so do we, and the world's a sty;     Hush, fellow-swine: why nuzzle and cry?     "Swinehood hath no remedy"     Say many men, and hasten by,     Clamping the nose and blinking the eye.     But who said once, in the lordly tone,     "Man shall not live by bread alone     But all that cometh from the Throne?"     Hath God said so?     But Trade saith "No:"     And the kilns and the curt-tongued mills say "Go!     There's plenty that can, if you can't: we know.     Move out, if you think you're underpaid.     The poor are prolific; we're not afraid;     Trade is trade."'"     Thereat this passionate protesting     Meekly changed, and softened till     It sank to sad requesting     And suggesting sadder still:     "And oh, if men might some time see     How piteous-false the poor decree     That trade no more than trade must be!     Does business mean, `Die, you - live, I?'     Then `Trade is trade' but sings a lie:     'Tis only war grown miserly.     If business is battle, name it so:     War-crimes less will shame it so,     And widows less will blame it so.     Alas, for the poor to have some part     In yon sweet living lands of Art,     Makes problem not for head, but heart.     Vainly might Plato's brain revolve it:     Plainly the heart of a child could solve it."     And then, as when from words that seem but rude     We pass to silent pain that sits abrood     Back in our heart's great dark and solitude,     So sank the strings to gentle throbbing     Of long chords change-marked with sobbing -     Motherly sobbing, not distinctlier heard     Than half wing-openings of the sleeping bird,     Some dream of danger to her young hath stirred.     Then stirring and demurring ceased, and lo!     Every least ripple of the strings' song-flow     Died to a level with each level bow     And made a great chord tranquil-surfaced so,     As a brook beneath his curving bank doth go     To linger in the sacred dark and green     Where many boughs the still pool overlean     And many leaves make shadow with their sheen.     But presently     A velvet flute-note fell down pleasantly     Upon the bosom of that harmony,     And sailed and sailed incessantly,     As if a petal from a wild-rose blown     Had fluttered down upon that pool of tone     And boatwise dropped o' the convex side     And floated down the glassy tide     And clarified and glorified     The solemn spaces where the shadows bide.     From the warm concave of that fluted note     Somewhat, half song, half odor, forth did float,     As if a rose might somehow be a throat:     "When Nature from her far-off glen     Flutes her soft messages to men,     The flute can say them o'er again;     Yea, Nature, singing sweet and lone,     Breathes through life's strident polyphone     The flute-voice in the world of tone.     Sweet friends,     Man's love ascends     To finer and diviner ends     Than man's mere thought e'er comprehends     For I, e'en I,     As here I lie,     A petal on a harmony,     Demand of Science whence and why     Man's tender pain, man's inward cry,     When he doth gaze on earth and sky?     I am not overbold:     I hold     Full powers from Nature manifold.     I speak for each no-tongued tree     That, spring by spring, doth nobler be,     And dumbly and most wistfully     His mighty prayerful arms outspreads     Above men's oft-unheeding heads,     And his big blessing downward sheds.     I speak for all-shaped blooms and leaves,     Lichens on stones and moss on eaves,     Grasses and grains in ranks and sheaves;     Broad-fronded ferns and keen-leaved canes,     And briery mazes bounding lanes,     And marsh-plants, thirsty-cupped for rains,     And milky stems and sugary veins;     For every long-armed woman-vine     That round a piteous tree doth twine;     For passionate odors, and divine     Pistils, and petals crystalline;     All purities of shady springs,     All shynesses of film-winged things     That fly from tree-trunks and bark-rings;     All modesties of mountain-fawns     That leap to covert from wild lawns,     And tremble if the day but dawns;     All sparklings of small beady eyes     Of birds, and sidelong glances wise     Wherewith the jay hints tragedies;     All piquancies of prickly burs,     And smoothnesses of downs and furs     Of eiders and of minevers;     All limpid honeys that do lie     At stamen-bases, nor deny     The humming-birds' fine roguery,     Bee-thighs, nor any butterfly;     All gracious curves of slender wings,     Bark-mottlings, fibre-spiralings,     Fern-wavings and leaf-flickerings;     Each dial-marked leaf and flower-bell     Wherewith in every lonesome dell     Time to himself his hours doth tell;     All tree-sounds, rustlings of pine-cones,     Wind-sighings, doves' melodious moans,     And night's unearthly under-tones;     All placid lakes and waveless deeps,     All cool reposing mountain-steeps,     Vale-calms and tranquil lotos-sleeps; -     Yea, all fair forms, and sounds, and lights,     And warmths, and mysteries, and mights,     Of Nature's utmost depths and heights,      - These doth my timid tongue present,     Their mouthpiece and leal instrument     And servant, all love-eloquent.     I heard, when `"All for love"' the violins cried:     So, Nature calls through all her system wide,     `Give me thy love, O man, so long denied.'     Much time is run, and man hath changed his ways,     Since Nature, in the antique fable-days,     Was hid from man's true love by proxy fays,     False fauns and rascal gods that stole her praise.     The nymphs, cold creatures of man's colder brain,     Chilled Nature's streams till man's warm heart was fain     Never to lave its love in them again.     Later, a sweet Voice `Love thy neighbor' said;     Then first the bounds of neighborhood outspread     Beyond all confines of old ethnic dread.     Vainly the Jew might wag his covenant head:     `"All men are neighbors,"' so the sweet Voice said.     So, when man's arms had circled all man's race,     The liberal compass of his warm embrace     Stretched bigger yet in the dark bounds of space;     With hands a-grope he felt smooth Nature's grace,     Drew her to breast and kissed her sweetheart face:     Yea man found neighbors in great hills and trees     And streams and clouds and suns and birds and bees,     And throbbed with neighbor-loves in loving these.     But oh, the poor! the poor! the poor!     That stand by the inward-opening door     Trade's hand doth tighten ever more,     And sigh their monstrous foul-air sigh     For the outside hills of liberty,     Where Nature spreads her wild blue sky     For Art to make into melody!     Thou Trade! thou king of the modern days!     Change thy ways,     Change thy ways;     Let the sweaty laborers file     A little while,     A little while,     Where Art and Nature sing and smile.     Trade! is thy heart all dead, all dead?     And hast thou nothing but a head?     I'm all for heart," the flute-voice said,     And into sudden silence fled,     Like as a blush that while 'tis red     Dies to a still, still white instead.     Thereto a thrilling calm succeeds,     Till presently the silence breeds     A little breeze among the reeds     That seems to blow by sea-marsh weeds:     Then from the gentle stir and fret     Sings out the melting clarionet,     Like as a lady sings while yet     Her eyes with salty tears are wet.     "O Trade! O Trade!" the Lady said,     "I too will wish thee utterly dead     If all thy heart is in thy head.     For O my God! and O my God!     What shameful ways have women trod     At beckoning of Trade's golden rod!     Alas when sighs are traders' lies,     And heart's-ease eyes and violet eyes     Are merchandise!     O purchased lips that kiss with pain!     O cheeks coin-spotted with smirch and stain!     O trafficked hearts that break in twain!      - And yet what wonder at my sisters' crime?     So hath Trade withered up Love's sinewy prime,     Men love not women as in olden time.     Ah, not in these cold merchantable days     Deem men their life an opal gray, where plays     The one red Sweet of gracious ladies'-praise.     Now, comes a suitor with sharp prying eye -     Says, `Here, you Lady, if you'll sell, I'll buy:     Come, heart for heart - a trade? What! weeping? why?'     Shame on such wooers' dapper mercery!     I would my lover kneeling at my feet     In humble manliness should cry, `O sweet!     I know not if thy heart my heart will greet:     I ask not if thy love my love can meet:     Whate'er thy worshipful soft tongue shall say,     I'll kiss thine answer, be it yea or nay:     I do but know I love thee, and I pray     To be thy knight until my dying day.'     Woe him that cunning trades in hearts contrives!     Base love good women to base loving drives.     If men loved larger, larger were our lives;     And wooed they nobler, won they nobler wives."     There thrust the bold straightforward horn     To battle for that lady lorn,     With heartsome voice of mellow scorn,     Like any knight in knighthood's morn.     "Now comfort thee," said he,     "Fair Lady.     For God shall right thy grievous wrong,     And man shall sing thee a true-love song,     Voiced in act his whole life long,     Yea, all thy sweet life long,     Fair Lady.     Where's he that craftily hath said,     The day of chivalry is dead?     I'll prove that lie upon his head,     Or I will die instead,     Fair Lady.     Is Honor gone into his grave?     Hath Faith become a caitiff knave,     And Selfhood turned into a slave     To work in Mammon's cave,     Fair Lady?     Will Truth's long blade ne'er gleam again?     Hath Giant Trade in dungeons slain     All great contempts of mean-got gain     And hates of inward stain,     Fair Lady?     For aye shall name and fame be sold,     And place be hugged for the sake of gold,     And smirch-robed Justice feebly scold     At Crime all money-bold,     Fair Lady?     Shall self-wrapt husbands aye forget     Kiss-pardons for the daily fret     Wherewith sweet wifely eyes are wet -     Blind to lips kiss-wise set -     Fair Lady?     Shall lovers higgle, heart for heart,     Till wooing grows a trading mart     Where much for little, and all for part,     Make love a cheapening art,     Fair Lady?     Shall woman scorch for a single sin     That her betrayer may revel in,     And she be burnt, and he but grin     When that the flames begin,     Fair Lady?     Shall ne'er prevail the woman's plea,     `We maids would far, far whiter be     If that our eyes might sometimes see     Men maids in purity,'     Fair Lady?     Shall Trade aye salve his conscience-aches     With jibes at Chivalry's old mistakes -     The wars that o'erhot knighthood makes     For Christ's and ladies' sakes,     Fair Lady?     Now by each knight that e'er hath prayed     To fight like a man and love like a maid,     Since Pembroke's life, as Pembroke's blade,     I' the scabbard, death, was laid,     Fair Lady,     I dare avouch my faith is bright     That God doth right and God hath might.     Nor time hath changed His hair to white,     Nor His dear love to spite,     Fair Lady.     I doubt no doubts: I strive, and shrive my clay,     And fight my fight in the patient modern way     For true love and for thee - ah me! and pray     To be thy knight until my dying day,     Fair Lady."     Made end that knightly horn, and spurred away     Into the thick of the melodious fray.     And then the hautboy played and smiled,     And sang like any large-eyed child,     Cool-hearted and all undefiled.     "Huge Trade!" he said,     "Would thou wouldst lift me on thy head     And run where'er my finger led!     Once said a Man - and wise was He -     `Never shalt thou the heavens see,     Save as a little child thou be.'"     Then o'er sea-lashings of commingling tunes     The ancient wise bassoons,     Like weird     Gray-beard     Old harpers sitting on the high sea-dunes,     Chanted runes:     "Bright-waved gain, gray-waved loss,     The sea of all doth lash and toss,     One wave forward and one across:     But now 'twas trough, now 'tis crest,     And worst doth foam and flash to best,     And curst to blest.     Life! Life! thou sea-fugue, writ from east to west,     Love, Love alone can pore     On thy dissolving score     Of harsh half-phrasings,     Blotted ere writ,     And double erasings     Of chords most fit.     Yea, Love, sole music-master blest,     May read thy weltering palimpsest.     To follow Time's dying melodies through,     And never to lose the old in the new,     And ever to solve the discords true -     Love alone can do.     And ever Love hears the poor-folks' crying,     And ever Love hears the women's sighing,     And ever sweet knighthood's death-defying,     And ever wise childhood's deep implying,     But never a trader's glozing and lying.     And yet shall Love himself be heard,     Though long deferred, though long deferred:     O'er the modern waste a dove hath whirred:     Music is Love in search of a word."     Baltimore, 1875.