Oh, he’s a little bandit,
And bold as bold can be.
He leads us, single-handed,
Into captivity.
For none is a match for Cupid.
He swifter is than thought.
The keenest mind is but stupid
When he begins to plot.
MUSIC.
Life hath such longings, bitter sweet,
And yet so few it satisfies
That man fain dreams life is complete
Only beyond the skies.
And like the mystic cloud of fire
That guided Israel’s way by night,
Every unsatisfied desire
Leads man towards the right.
Around him, mingling with the dust,
Youth’s pure ideals, shattered, lie;
Hope, virtue, charity and trust
Amid life’s deserts die.
Fade aspirations, fades each dream
Of goodness, honor and renown.
Man floats on a polluted stream,
Which fain would drag him down.
But music, like the nightingale
That sweetly sings in woodland brakes,
When hope and trust and virtue fail,
Man’s nobler nature wakes.
Only in music doth man find
An echo of the dreams of youth,
When he saw gods among mankind,
In woman only truth.