One, Two, Three, Four, Five, contribute their quota ; Something is gained, if one caught but the importShow it us, Hugues of Saxe-Gotha ! XIX. 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! XX. 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 66 -Blacked to the stoutest of tickens ?" XXI. I for man's effort am zealous : Prove me such censure unfounded! Seems it surprising a lover grows jealous Hopes 't was for something, his organ-pipes sounded, Tiring three boys at the bellows? Is it your moral of Life? XXII. Such a web, simple and subtle, Weave we on earth here in impotent strife, Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle, Death ending all with a knife? VOL. III. 15 XXIII. Over our heads truth and nature Still our life's zigzags and dodges, Ins and outs, weaving a new legislature-- God's gold just shining its last where that lodges, Palled beneath man's usurpature. XXIV. So we o'ershroud stars and roses, Cherub and trophy and garland; Nothings grow something which quietly closes Heaven's earnest eye: not a glimpse of the far land Gets through our comments and glozes. XXV. 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! XXVI. Who thinks Hugues wrote for the deaf, Better submit; try again; what's the clef? 'Faith, 't is no trifle for pipe and for tabor— Four flats, the minor in F. XXVII. Friend, your fugue taxes the finger : Learning it once, who would lose it? Yet all the while a misgiving will linger, Truth 's golden o'er us although we refuse itNature, thro' cobwebs we string her. XXVIII. Hugues! I advise meâ pœnâ (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. XXIX. While in the roof, if I 'm right there, Lo you, the wick in the socket! Hallo, you sacristan, show us a light there! What, you want, do you, to come unawares, At the foot of your rotten-runged rat-riddled stairs ? Do I carry the moon in my pocket? |