THE LAUNCH OF THE SHIP.
"Build me straight, O worthy Master!
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel,
That shall laugh at all disaster,
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
The merchant's word
Delighted the Master heard;
For his heart was in his work, and the heart
Giveth grace unto every art.
And with a voice that was full of glee,
He answered, "Ere long we will launch
A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch
As ever weathered a wintry sea!"
All is finished! and at length
Has come the bridal day
Of beauty and of strength.
To-day the vessel shall be launched!
With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched;
And o'er the bay,
Slowly, in all his splendours dight,
The great sun rises to behold the sight.
The ocean old
Centuries old,
Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
Paces restless to and fro,
Up and down the sands of gold.
His beating heart is not at rest;
And far and wide,
With ceaseless flow,
His beard of snow
Heaves with the heaving of his breast.
He waits impatient for his bride.
There she stands,
With her foot upon the sands,
Decked with flags and streamers gay,
In honour of her marriage-day,
Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
Round her like a veil descending,
Ready to be
The bride of the gray old sea.
Then the Master,
With a gesture of command,
Waved his hand;
And at the word,
Loud and sudden there was heard,
All around them and below,
The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
Knocking away the shores and spurs,
And see! she stirs!
She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel,
And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms!
And lo! from the assembled crowd
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say,—
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
Take her to thy protecting arms,
With all her youth, and all her charms!"
How beautiful she is! how fair
She lies within those arms that press
Her form with many a soft caress
Of tenderness and watchful care!
Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity, with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what Master laid thy keel,
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast and sail and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge, and what a heat,
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Fear not each sudden sound and shock;
'Tis of the wave, and not the rock;
'Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale!
In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea;
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee:
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee,—are all with thee!
Longfellow.
* * * * *
ROCK OF AGES.
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Sang the lady, soft and low,
And her voice's gentle flow
Rose upon the evening air
With the sweet and solemn prayer:
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Yet she sang, as oft she had
When her heart was gay and glad,
Sang because she felt alone,
Sang because her soul had grown
Weary with the tedious day,
Sang to while the hours away:
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Where the fitful gaslight falls
On her father's massive walls.
On the chill and silent street
Where the lights and shadows meet,
There the lady's voice was heard,
As the breath of night was stirred
With her tones so sweet and clear,
Wafting up to God that prayer:
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Wandering, homeless thro' the night,
Praying for the morning light,
Pale and haggard, wan and weak,
With sunken eye and hollow cheek
Went a woman, one whose life
Had been wrecked in sin and strife;
One, a lost and only child,
One by sin and shame defiled;
And her heart with sorrow wrung,
Heard the lady when she sung:
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Pausing, low her head she bent,
And the music as it went
Pierced her blackened soul, and brought
Back to her (as lost in thought
Tremblingly she stood) the past,
And the burning tears fell fast,
As she called to mind the days
When she walked in virtue's ways.
When she sang that very song
With no sense of sin or wrong:
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"
On the marble steps she knelt,
And her soul that moment felt
More than she could speak, as there
Quivering, moved her lips in prayer,
And the God she had forgot
Smiled upon her lonely lot;
Heard her as she murmured oft,
With an accent sweet and soft:
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Little knew the lady fair,
As she sung in silence there,
That her voice had pierced a soul
That had lived 'neath sin's control!
Little knew, when she had done,
That a lost and erring one
Heard her—as she breathed that strain—
And returned to God again!
F. L. Stanton.
* * * * *
BEETHOVEN'S MOONLIGHT SONATA.
It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's evening I called on Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk, and afterward to sup with me. In passing through some dark narrow street he paused suddenly. "Hush!" he said, "what sound is that? It is from my symphony in F," he said eagerly. "Hark, how well it is played!"
It was a little, mean dwelling; and we paused outside and listened. The player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was a sudden break, then the voice sobbing: "I can not play any more—it is so beautiful, it is so utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh! what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!"
"Ah, my sister," said her companion, "why create regrets when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent."
"You are right; and yet I wish, for once in my life, to hear some really good music. But it is of no use."
Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said.
"Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?"
"I will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. "Here is feeling— genius—understanding. I will play to her, and she will understand it!" And before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door.
A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned towards us as we entered.
"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to enter. I am a musician."
The girl blushed and the young man looked grave—somewhat annoyed.
"I—I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend. "You wish to hear—that is, you would like—that is—shall I play for you?"
There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all smiled involuntarily.
"Thank you," said the shoemaker; "but our harpsichord is so wretched, and we have no music."
"No music!" echoed my friend. "How, then, does the fraulein—"
He paused and coloured up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw that she was blind.
"I—I entreat your pardon," he stammered; "but I had not perceived before.
Then you play from ear?"
"Entirely."
"And where do you hear the music; since you frequent no concerts?"
"I used to hear a lady practicing near us, when we lived at Bruhl two years. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her."
She seemed shy, so Beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly before the piano, and began to play. He had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what would follow—how grand he would be that night! And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He was inspired; and from the instant that his fingers began to wander along the keys, the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal.
The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands, pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the harpsichord as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart should break the flow of those magical sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a strange dream, and only feared to wake.
Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sunk, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before, and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. But the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time.
At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly, yet reverently—"Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone, "who and what are you?"
The composer smiled as he only could smile, benevolently, indulgently, kingly. "Listen," he said, and he played the opening bars of the symphony in F.
A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming,
"Then, you are Beethoven!" they covered his hands with tears and kisses.
He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties, "Play to us once more —only once more!"
He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious rugged head and massive figure. "I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!" looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars—then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth. This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time—a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a swift agitato finale—a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight, and uncertainty, and vague impulsive terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all emotion and wonder.
"Farewell to you," said Beethoven, pushing back his chair, and turning towards the door; "farewell to you."
"You will come again?" asked they, in one breath.
He paused, and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the blind girl. "Yes, yes," he said, hurriedly, "I will come again, and give the fraulein some lessons. Farewell! I will soon come again'"
They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their door till we were out of sight and hearing.
"Let us make haste back," said Beethoven, "that I may write out that sonata while I can yet remember it!" We did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn. And this was the origin of that Moonlight Sonata with which we are all so fondly acquainted.
* * * * *