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One dissertates, he is candid;
Two must discept,-has distinguished ; . Three helps the couple, if ever yet man did ;
Four protests; Five makes a dart at the thing wished: Back to One, goes the case bandied.
One says his say with a difference;
More of expounding, explaining !
Now there's a truce, all's subdued, self-restraining: Five, though, stands out all the stiffer hence,
Two retorts, nettled, curt, crepitant ;
Four overbears them all, strident and strepitant :
Now, they prick pins at a tissue
Worked on the bone of a lie. To what issue?
Est fuga, volvitur rota.
On we drift: where looms the dim port? One, Two, Three, Four, Five, contribute their quota ;
Something is gained, if one caught but the importShow it us Hugues of Saxe-Gotha !
What with affirming, denying,
Holding, risposting, subjoining, All’s like... it's like ... for an instance I'm trying ...
There! See our roof, its gilt moulding and groining Under those spider-webs lying!
So your fugue broadens and thickens,
Greatens and deepens and lengthens, Till we exclaim—“But where 's music, the dickens ?
“ Blot ye the gold, while your spider-web strengthens “-Blacked to the stoutest of tickens?”
Prove me such censure unfounded !
Hopes 't was for something, his organ pipes sounded, Tiring three boys at the bellows ?
Such a web, simple and subtle,
Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle,
Still our life's zigzags and dodges,
God's gold just shining its last where that lodges, Palled beneath man's usurpature.
Cherub and trophy and garland;
Heaven's earnest eye: not a glimpse of the far land Gets through our comments and glozes.
Ah but traditions, inventions,
(Say we and make up a visage) So many men with such various intentions,
Down the past ages, must know more than this age ! Leave we the web its dimensions !
Proved a mere mountain in labour ?
’Faith, 't is no trifle for pipe and for taborFour flats, the minor in F.
Learning it once, who would lose it?
Truth 's golden o'er us although we refuse itNature, thro' cobwebs we string her.
XXVIII. Hugues ! I advise meâ poenâ
(Counterpoint glares like a Gorgon) Bid One, Two, Three, Four, Five, clear the arena !
Say the word, straight I unstop the full-organ, Blare out the mode Palestrina.
While in the roof, if I'm right there,
... Lo you, the wick in the socket! Hallo, you sacristan, show us a light there!
Down it dips, gone like a rocket. What, you want, do you, to come unawares, Sweeping the church up for first morning-prayers, And find a poor devil has ended his cares At the foot of your rotten-runged rat-riddled stairs ?
Do I carry the moon in my pocket ?
(AFTER HE HAS BEEN EXTEMPORIZING UPON THE
MUSICAL INSTRUMENT OF HIS INVENTION.)
Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I
build, Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when
Solomon willed Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, Man, brute, reptile, ily,—alien of end and of aim, Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep
removed, Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable
Name, And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess
he loved !
Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of
mine, This which my keys in a crowd pressed and impor
tuned to raise ! Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and
now combine, Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise !