History Of Music Production

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History Of Music Production

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 History Of Music
Production

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.
 ROSE.

Know you whence the roses came?

Roses are the queen of flowers;
Rose is my beloved’s name.

All my heart was set aflame

As we walked through Cupid’s bowers;
Know you whence the roses came?

Is it sweetness—is it shame—
When the sunshine’s spoiled by showers?
Rose is my beloved’s name.

Duty sits a stern old dame

On a throne of ruined towers;
Know you whence the roses came?

Youth must live and who shall blame

If with love it pass the hours?
Rose is my beloved’s name.

Life and love is all a game,

Shine and shadow—gleams and glowers—
Know you whence the roses came?
Rose is my beloved’s name.
A SEA DREAM.
My spirit wandered by the ocean shore;
Proud argosies sailed out to Albion’s isle
Deep-laden with a new world’s golden store,
The sun-kissed waves danced lightly, Nature’s smile
Suffused o’er all the scene sweet loveliness awhile.

Light silver veils, like tender thoughts outspread

When dreaming lovers taste supernal joy,
Floated around Heaven’s azure bridal bed
In listless splendour; others did convoy
Earth’s treasures o’er the deep that plotted to destroy.

There rose as from the sea a strange mirage

Out of the past; the clouds like floating drapes
Each moment changed, and ocean’s long rivage
Was wreathed by magic in a thousand shapes,
Now gemmed with flashing isles, now girt with solemn capes.

And all the cities that have loved the sea

To their destruction, passed along the sky,
And I beheld them, as the drowning see,
In that last moment when they sink to die,
All life’s forgotten scenes unrolled by memory.

Time-honoured Greece, whose fingers clutched the wave

And clasped it to a heart that beats no more,
Sank with her wisdom in a silent grave,
Leaving her sons a splendour to deplore
While moans the tideless sea around each classic shore.

Rich Carthage, whose swift keels swam round the world,

Phœnicia’s loveliest daughter. Her fair hand
Was fought for by the nations; Fate hath hurled,
Her and her glory from their sea-throne grand,
Buried like some old palm beneath the burning sand.
Great Venice stood amid the nuptials gay
Blessing as bride the fair but fickle sea;
But all her pride and pomp have passed away,
Dukes, doge, ships, senate, riches, sovereignty,
That once compelled the world to fall on bended knee.

Imperial Rome, set like a lustrous gem

Within seven guardian jewels! Tyrant Time
Stole from her thoughtful brow its diadem
And the three wreaths that crowned her all-sublime,
Stained though their golden leaves with many a bloody crime.

Proud Spain! once mistress of the sea, before

The fool Ambition led her ships in vain
Against the bulwarks of old England’s shore,
When God smote down her pride upon the main
And sank her power so low, it never rose again.

Then fell a mist before my wondering sight

Over the past, and slowly there arose
Our blessèd Britain in her glorious might,
The awe and admiration of her foes,
Whose land of liberty protecting seas enclose.

The diamond of nations, set in gold,

Flashing with truth that sparkles o’er the earth,
Compared to her what empery of old
Hath wrought for suffering man such deeds of worth,
Or filled with living light dark lands of ageless dearth?
THE BLACK KNIGHT.
To King Banalin’s court there came
From divers lands beyond the sea
A score of knights, with hearts aflame
With love for lady Ursalie,
Whose wondrous beauty and fair fame
Were sung by Europe’s minstrelsy.

Each lord in retinue did bring

A noble and a princely band,
Whose deeds the troubadours did sing
Through length and breadth of Christian land,
And each by turn besought the King
The favour of his daughter’s hand.

But spake the King to each brave lord,

“When first the sun shall shine in May
A tourney in the palace-yard
We do appoint, and on that day
Who holds his own with spear and sword
Shall take our daughter fair away.”

Whereat the Lady Ursalie

Blanched as a lily of the vale,
For many moons had waned since she
First pledged her love to Sir Verale,
And for that sick to death was he
Her trembling lips turned ashen pale.

The heavy scent of musk and myrrh

Hung all about the inner room,
Dim taper lights did faintly stir
To life the arras through the gloom,—
She bade her handmaid bring to her
The treasure-box that held her doom.

With lightest touch a secret spring

 Upraised the silver casket’s lid;
She took therefrom a golden ring,
A broken coin, a heart hair-thrid,
And many a sweet and precious thing
Wherein her plighted troth was hid.

“Then welcome death, if death it prove,”

She said and kissed with lips still pale
Each sweet remembrance of his love;—
“I will not fail thee, Sir Verale,
Though from thy couch thou canst not move
To don for me thy coat of mail.”

Unto the chapel straight she went

And knelt before the altar-stone;
Her face within her hands she bent
Praying with many a tear and moan
Until the day was well-nigh spent,
When came a beadsman she had known;

“O! Father! join thy prayer with mine

The life of Sir Verale to save;
O! plead then at our Lady’s shrine
For health to one so young and brave.
For I will wed, with help divine,
No other lord this side the grave.”

The holy friar knelt him there

And crossed him, and began to tell
His beads, each counted for a prayer,
Until the sound of vesper-bell
Stole through the darkling twilight air
And warned them of the day’s farewell.

Each day at morn and noon and night

Her trusted handmaid she did send
To learn if her belovèd knight
 g
In life’s estate was like to mend,
And on the eve of April’s flight
This message came her heart to rend.

“Tell thou my lady fair,” he said,

To her who bore the answer back,
“To-morrow will I leave this bed
And wear my suit of armour black;
To-morrow will I win and wed
Or lose both love and life, alack.”

The Lady Ursalie knew well

He could not rise, so ill he was,
And shuddered as her maid did tell
His dying state, then forth did pass
Unto the chapel, as the bell
Proclaimed the holy evening mass.

The morrow broke with golden rush

And chased the gloom of night away;
The pipe of blackbird, song of thrush,
Rose with the skylark’s roundelay,
The wild flowers started with a blush
To meet the first bright morn of May.

The palace-yard was all prepared;

Bright-hued pavilions stood around,
The banners waved, the armour glared,
The eager steeds tore up the ground,
And twenty princes who had dared
The tourney in the lists were found.

The King and Queen on daïsed throne

Received each knight on bended knee;
But like an image carved in stone
Sat lovely Lady Ursalie
And none who saw her would have known
And none who saw her would have known
For her the tourney was to be.

But one there knelt in sable mail

Of whom the King in accents rude,
Did ask his name, and why this bale
Of armour black, he did intrude;
He answered: “I am Sir Verale,
Long months thy daughter have I wooed.

And by this sable suit I wear,

This sterling blade of Spanish steel,
This iron shield and trusty spear,—
But chiefly by the love I feel,
I ask to wife thy daughter fair
And that, proud King, is why I kneel.”

When Lady Ursalie that voice

Did hear, her heart beat high with fears,
Her troubled soul did half rejoice
And memory filled her eyes with tears;
But as she smiled upon her choice
There fell a clash of shields and spears.

Knight after knight was overthrown,

Some ready for the bier and shroud,
At last the black knight stood alone—
And in the air applause rang loud
As proudly strode he to the throne
Pursued by all the noble crowd.

Then cried the King: “Right nobly won,

Most puissant, worthy Sir Verale,
I would the words were well undone
That erst in anger I did rail.”
The knight replied, “Words injure none,
And after-grief doth not avail.
And now, O King, thou soon shalt wis
Thy daughter is forever mine,
And when thy loving liegemen miss
Both thee and all thou callest thine,
They shall recall the Black Knight’s kiss
And know that love hath power divine.”

Then at the Lady Ursalie

The Black Knight looked and she arose.
But what strange visage she did see
That his raised vizor did disclose—
Is still an awful mystery
Which only that dead lady knows.

For when her eyes of lustre rare

Gazed there, where none could see a face,
A flash of lightning rent the air;
And, passing in a moment’s space,
The Black Knight was no longer there
And of his steed there was no trace.

All looked at Lady Ursalie,

Who blushed with love like any bride:
“No power can take my soul from thee,
I come, I come,” she faintly cried,
And swooned in arms held hastily
And smiling closed her eyes and died.

But who the Black Knight was none knew,

Though one said who had second sight,
He watched a raven as it flew
In circles slow and did alight
Upon the tourney ground and grew
Into a sable horse and knight.

By some, it is believed and said,

That Sir Verale gave one deep sigh
 That Sir Verale gave one deep sigh
And turned himself on his sick bed
And muttered a low welcome cry,
And ere the watchers knew, was dead,
As his dear lady’s soul passed by.
 THE GOLDEN LINE.

As each small ripple of the mighty sea

Reflects a tiny image of the sun
Until in radiance joining one by one,
They do present a path of brilliancy;
In this broad stripe of gold that comes to me
From the horizon, as though God had spun
A thread of golden thought for me alone,
Out of His universal mystery—
So from the mirror of each human soul
Shall flash the radiance of God’s great love
Which ever shineth on us from above
Until Love’s splendour lighteth up life’s whole,
And man shall look on man, and soul through soul behold
One flaming line of Truth, God’s pure and shining gold.
 SWEET OF MY LIFE.

Love is to life as perfume to the rose,

A sweet unseen enjoyment that doth lend
Rapture to beauty—so doth Nature send
The harmony of happiness that flows
Half-way between hot Passion’s leaps and throes
And Apathy, where worn-out feelings end,
Throughout the universe, there doth attend
Upon all active ordering, repose.
O Thou! the fair embodiment of good,
Who first within me struck the chord of Love,
Necessity of Life! in thee doth move
The pure quintessence of pure womanhood,
Without thy love my life would be as bare
As fairest rose without its perfume rare.
 HASTINGS.

The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray,

O! sing of the battle on Hasting’s shore,
When the arrows of Normandy won the day.

Flushed by debauch at the break of day,

Their keen-edged axes athirst for gore,
The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray.

Proud soldiers fell down on their knees to pray,

Lord! yield us the victory, we implore;
When the arrows of Normandy won the day.

King Harold, whose heart never felt dismay,

Spake loud of the deeds they had done before;
The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray.

Taillefer the jongleur, sang well his lay

And laughed as he flung up the lance he bore,
When the arrows of Normandy won the day.

Duke William in England proclaimed his sway;

King Harold lay dead; the battle was o’er;
The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray,
But the arrows of Normandy won the day.
 SHELLEY.

A bird of song, far soaring to its home,

Over the sea-waves cleaves with tireless wing
The cloudless blue; but, swiftly gathering,
A storm breaks up the crystal into foam
That dashes mountain-high ’gainst Heaven’s dome
Now darkened. Down the aerial harpies fling
The sweet-voiced minstrel and sad surges sing
The dirge of death with sorrow burdensome.
O Heart of Hearts! high-beating o’er the world
From whom fell sweetest song that unto man
Told love and life, since life and love began;
Like some lone bird thou wert by Nature hurled
Into the restless jaws of death’s devouring sea
With still a Song of Songs to bear thee company.
MORNING.
The gray of dawn peeps up behind night’s folds,
While darkling clouds yet dim the distant sky;
Long miles of mist disperse along the wolds,
And from the dewy boughs the songsters fly.

The feathered minstrels of the opening day,

Refreshed by long and undisturbed repose,
Arrange the plumes that night has turned astray,
And all their ruffled beauties now disclose.

The late, lone bat, like some lost refugee,

Seeks dark security from pressing morn,
And scatters, as it hides in hollow tree,
Bright butterflies that soon the scene adorn.

The busy ants from their great hills descend

In careful haste, and cross the grassy plain,
Saluting silently each passing friend,
But disregarding strangers with disdain.

The lumbering beetle, lazy and begrimed,

With laggard steps begins the dreary day,
After the toiling snail hath long beslimed
His burdened march upon the open way.

Along its silken threads the spider walks,

And shakes the hanging dew-drop to the ground;
No chance entanglement his duty balks,
As patiently he treads each subtle round.

Forth from the little door of his domain

The gentle bee, armed with industrious powers,
Seeks treasure-trove, and soon returns again,
Weighed with the honey of a hundred flowers.

Within the wood the dove begins to coo,

T lli ith lli b t hi tl t
 Telling, with swelling breast, his gentler mate
How he has sought her presence but to sue,
And all day long her love will supplicate.

Out of the root-roofed archway of yon beech,

The natural portal of his spacious cell,
The nut-brown squirrel doth his neck far reach,
To spy if all is safe within the dell.

The marigolds unfold their yellow heads,

That vie in colour with the saffron sun;
The violets stretch within their scented beds,
And raise their beauteous faces, one by one.

Along the meadow land the daisies pied

Proclaim their presence to the pearl-laid grass;
The morning-glories, in their prudish pride,
Ope wide their eyes, to gaze in nature’s glass.

And whilst within the parsonage dull sleep

Still holds the inmates with mesmeric power,
The martins one unending circle keep,
In morning service round the old church tower.

The robin, rosy from his early bath,

With quaint conceit, which unto him belongs,
Hops, uninvited, down the garden path
And breaks the silence with his tuneless songs.

Whereat the watch-dog rousing from his sloth,

Chases the bold invader far away,
And, careless though the chanticleer be wroth,
With joyful bark proclaims the break of day.
 LOVE’S VOICE.

As little streams that start to find the sea

Proclaim with babbling tongues their voyaging
And with proud riot make the meadows ring,
Or fill the wild woods with much noisy glee,
As of their course they tell each waving tree
And wandering bird that chances near to wing;
So shallow lovers in the world’s ear sing
Their plaint of passion with vain minstrelsy.
But vast as restless ocean’s deep expanse,
Superbly splendid, solemnly sublime,
Whose music beats upon the shore of time
In rhythmic beauty, is my heart’s romance:
But as no song can sound the mighty sea,
My soul is silent in its love for thee.
 LILIES AND POPPIES.

White lilies languish on their graceful stems,

Red poppies laugh amid the growing corn;
Lilies at poppies look with lofty scorn
And cherish dear their own chaste diadems;
Poppies at lilies scoff, their scarlet gems
Blaze in the splendor of a life, love-born
And love-begetting, and do most adorn
Those whom love’s beauty unto death condemns.
Lay the white blossoms on the lowly bier
Of her who passed away, so pure and young,—
Fling the red passion-poisoned flowers among
Her syren-sisters who live sinning here.
O! star-souled lily! white for none to blame.
O! blood-stained poppy! red with blush of shame.