DIVISION II

CHAPTER IV

Rhythm, Movement *

Rhythm, in speech, is the more or less regular recurrence of accent or impulses of the voice. In music and in lyric poetry, these impulses occur at regular intervals; but in other forms of poetry and in prose, the rhythmic movement is less marked. Rhythm is one of the beauties of literature, and must be heard to be appreciated. Read aloud frequently. Bring out the music of the rhythm, but avoid sing-song reading. Modulate the voice so that it will interpret the music as well as the thought of literature.

The rate, or movement, of reading varies with the character of the literature. If solemn or grave, the movement is slow; if gay or exciting, the movement is rapid. The movement should vary as the thought or emotion varies.

ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY

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.

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

And Music's power obey.

*See Lanier's "Science of English Verse."

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.

II.

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?

III.

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.

IV.

The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

V.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs, and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion,

For the fair, disdainful, dame.

VI.

But oh! 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.

VII.

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 blessed 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.

COME INTO THE GARDEN

1.

Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown.

2.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves,

To faint in his light, and to die.

3.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune;

Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

4.

I said to the lily, "There is but one

With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone? She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day;

Low on the sand and loud on the stone

The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose,

5.

"The brief night goes

In babble and revel and wine.

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine?

But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."

6.

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,

As the music clashed in the hall;

And long by the garden lake I stood,

For I heard your rivulet fall

From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,

Our wood, that is dearer than all;

7.

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs

He sets the jewel-print of your feet

In violets blue as your eyes,

To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

8.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;

The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;

The lilies and roses were all awake,

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.