Shadows (Howe)/The Orchestra

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THE ORCHESTRA
UPON the mountain's morning side The players, all in feathered coats,On tree-tops swing, in thickets hide, And sound preliminary notes.
The violinists here and there Tune all their many strings unseen;Long sloping tones are in the air, With pizzicato bits between.
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Hark! 'tis a flute's roulade so near That revels gay and unafraid!And there! the clarinet rings clear Its mellow trill from yonder glade.
The gentle tappings of a drum Sound where the beeches thinner grow;Nearer a humorist is come Upon his droll bassoon to blow.
And now a 'cello from afar Breathes out its human, dim appeal—A voice as from a distant star Where mortals work their woe and weal.
Then down a sylvan aisle I gaze, And to my musing sense it seemsA leader mounts a log, and sways His baton like a man of dreams.
And here behold a marvel wrought! For marshalled in a concord sweetThe blending fragments all are brought To tune and harmony complete.
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Is it a masterpiece that men Have heard before—and found it good?Is this the Rheinland o'er again? Am I with Siegfried in the wood?
Nay—for this priceless hour 'tis mine To share with Nature's audienceA symphony too rare and fine For skill of human instruments.
Leader, what music hast thou stirred! Players, still heed him every one!And God be thanked for every bird That sings beneath the May-day sun!

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