DESCRIPTIVE ANALYSES
OF PIANO WORKS
FOR THE USE OF TEACHERS,
PLAYERS, AND MUSIC CLUBS
BY
EDWARD BAXTER PERRY
PHILADELPHIA
THEODORE PRESSER CO.
LONDON, WEEKES & CO.
Copyright, 1902, by Theodore Presser
International Copyright
Printed in the United States of America
My Keys
I.
To no crag-crowning castle above the wild main,
To no bower of fair lady or villa in Spain;
To no deep, hidden vaults where the stored jewels shine,
Or the South’s ruddy sunlight is prisoned in wine;
To no gardens enchanted where nightingales sing,
And the flowers of all climes breathe perpetual spring:
To none of all these
They give access, my keys,
My magical ebon and ivory keys.
II.
But to temples sublime, where music is prayer,
To the bower of a goddess supernally fair;
To the crypts where the ages their mysteries keep,
Where the sorrows and joys of earth’s greatest ones sleep;
Where the wine of emotion a life’s thirst may still,
And the jewels of thought gleam to light at my will:
To more than all these
They give access, my keys,
My magical ebon and ivory keys.
III.
To bright dreams of the past in locked cells of the mind,
To the tombs of dead joys in their beauty enshrined;
To the chambers where love’s recollections are stored,
And the fanes where devotion’s best homage is poured;
To the cloudland of hope, where the dull mist of tears
As the rainbow of promise illumined appears;
To all these, when I please,
They give access, my keys,
My magical ebon and ivory keys.
Only an Interpreter
The world will still go on the very same
When the last feeble echo of my name
Has died from out men’s listless hearts and ears
These many years.
Its tides will roll, its suns will rise and set,
When mine, through twilight portals of regret,
Has passed to quench its pallid, parting light
In rayless night,
While o’er my place oblivion’s tide will sweep
To whelm my deeds in silence dark and deep,
The triumphs and the failures, ill and good,
Beneath its flood.
Then other, abler men will serve the Art
I strove to serve with singleness of heart;
Will wear her thorned laurels on the brow,
As I do now.
I shall not care to ask whose fame is first,
Or feel the fever of that burning thirst
To win her warmest smile, nor count the cost
Whate’er be lost.
As I have striven, they will strive to rise
To hopeless heights, where that elusive prize,
The unattainable ideal, gleams
Through waking dreams.
But I shall sleep, a sleep secure, profound,
Beyond the reach of blame, or plaudits’ sound;
And who stands high, who low, I shall not know:
’Tis better so.
For what the gain of all my toilsome years,
Of all my ceaseless struggles, secret tears?
My best, more brief than frailest summer flower,
Dies with the hour.
My most enduring triumphs swifter pass
Than fairy frost-wreaths from the window glass:
The master but of moments may not claim
A deathless name.
Mine but the task to lift, a little space,
The mystic veil from beauty’s radiant face
That other men may joy thereon to see,
Forgetting me.
Not mine the genius to create the forms
Which stand serenely strong, thro’ suns and storms,
While passing ages praise that power sublime
Defying time.
Mine but the transient service of a day,
Scant praise, too ready blame, and meager pay:
No matter, though with hunger at the heart
I did my part.
I dare not call my labor all in vain,
If I but voice anew one lofty strain:
The faithful echo of a noble thought
With good is fraught.
For some it cheers upon life’s weary road,
And some hearts lightens of their bitter load,
Which might have missed the message in the din
Of strife and sin.
My lavished life-blood warmed and woke again
The still, pale children of another’s brain,
Brimmed full the forms which else were cold,
Tho’ fair of mold.
And thro’ their lips my spirit spoke to men
Of higher hopes, of courage under pain,
Of worthy aspirations, fearless flight
To reach the light.
Then, soul of mine, content thee with thy fate,
Though noble niche of fame and guerdon great
Be not for thee: thy modest task was sweet
At beauty’s feet.
The Artist passes like a swift-blown breeze,
Or vapors floating up from summer seas;
But Art endures as long as life and love:
For her I strove.