Author: Alfred Noyes

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    Was it a dream?--that crowded concert-room
    In Bath; that sea of ruffles and laced coats;
    And William Herschel, in his powdered wig,
    Waiting upon the platform, to conduct
    His choir and Linley's orchestra? He stood
    Tapping his music-rest, lost in his own thoughts
    And (did I hear or dream them?) all were mine:

    My periwig's askew, my ruffle stained
    With grease from my new telescope!
                         Ach, to-morrow
    How Caroline will be vexed, although she grows
    Almost as bad as I, who cannot leave
    My work-shop for one evening.
                I must give
    One last recital at St. Margaret's,
    And then--farewell to music.
             Who can lead
    Two lives at once?
                 Yet--it has taught me much,
    Thrown curious lights upon our world, to pass
    From one life to another. Much that I took
    For substance turns to shadow. I shall see
    No throngs like this again; wring no more praise
    Out of their hearts; forego that instant joy
    --Let those who have not known it count it vain--
    When human souls at once respond to yours.
    Here, on the brink of fortune and of fame,
    As men account these things, the moment comes
    When I must choose between them and the stars;
    And I have chosen.
                 Handel, good old friend,
    We part to-night. Hereafter, I must watch
    That other wand, to which the worlds keep time.

    What has decided me? That marvelous night
    When--ah, how difficult it will be to guide,
    With all these wonders whirling through my brain!--
    After a Pump-room concert I came home
    Hot-foot, out of the fluttering sea of fans,
    Coquelicot-ribboned belles and periwigged beaux,
    To my Newtonian telescope.
                                 The design
    Was his; but more than half the joy my own,
    Because it was the work of my own hand,
    A new one, with an eye six inches wide,
    Better than even the best that Newton made.
    Then, as I turned it on the Gemini,
    And the deep stillness of those constant lights,
    Castor and Pollux, lucid pilot-stars,
    Began to calm the fever of my blood,
    I saw, O, first of all mankind I saw
    The disk of my new planet gliding there
    Beyond our tumults, in that realm of peace.

    What will they christen it? Ach--not Herschel, no!
    Nor Georgium Sidus, as I once proposed;
    Although he scarce could lose it, as he lost
    That world in 'seventy-six.
                                 Indeed, so far
    From trying to tax it, he has granted me
    How much?--two hundred golden pounds a year,
    In the great name of science,--half the cost
    Of one state-coach, with all those worlds to win!
    Well--well--we must be grateful. This mad king
    Has done far more than all the worldly-wise,
    Who'll charge even this to madness.
                            I believe
    One day he'll have me pardoned for that...crime,
    When I escaped--deserted, some would say--
    From those drill-sergeants in my native land;
    Deserted drill for music, as I now
    Desert my music for the orchestral spheres.
    No. This new planet is only new to man.
    His majesty has done much. Yet, as my friend
    Declared last night, "Never did monarch buy
    Honour so cheaply"; and--he has not bought it.
    I think that it should bear some ancient name,
    And wear it like a crown; some deep, dark name,
    Like Uranus, known to remoter gods.

    How strange it seems--this buzzing concert-room!
    There's Doctor Burney bowing and, behind him,
    His fox-eyed daughter Fanny.
             Is it a dream,
    These crowding midgets, dense as clustering bees
    In some great bee-skep?
                            Now, as I lift my wand,
    A silence grips them, and the strings begin,
    Throbbing. The faint lights flicker in gusts of sound.
    Before me, glimmering like a crescent moon,
    The dim half circle of the choir awaits
    Its own appointed time.
                            Beside me now,
    Watching my wand, plump and immaculate
    From buckled shoes to that white bunch of lace
    Under his chin, the midget tenor rises,
    Music in hand, a linnet and a king.
    The bullfinch bass, that other emperor,
    Leans back indifferently, and clears his throat
    As if to say, "This prelude leads to Me!"
    While, on their own proud thrones, on either hand,
    The sumptuously bosomed midget queens,
    Contralto and soprano, jealously eye
    Each other's plumage.
                        Round me the music throbs
    With an immortal passion. I grow aware
    Of an appalling mystery.... We, this throng
    Of midgets, playing, listening, tense and still,
    Are sailing on a midget ball of dust
    We call our planet; will have sailed through space
    Ten thousand leagues before this music ends.
    What does it mean? Oh, God, what can it mean?--
    This weird hushed ant-hill with a thousand eyes;
    These midget periwigs; all those little blurs,
    Tier over tier, of faces, masks of flesh,
    Corruptible, hiding each its hopes and dreams,
    Its tragi-comic dreams.
                            And all this throng
    Will be forgotten, mixed with dust, crushed out,
    Before this book of music is outworn
    Or that tall organ crumbles. Violins
    Outlast their players. Other hands may touch
    That harpsichord; but ere this planet makes
    Another threescore journeys round its sun,
    These breathing listeners will have vanished. Whither?
    I watch my moving hands, and they grow strange!
    What is it moves this body? What am I?
    How came I here, a ghost, to hear that voice
    Of infinite compassion, far away,
    Above the throbbing strings, hark! Comfort ye...

    If music lead us to a cry like this,
    I think I shall not lose it in the skies.
    I do but follow its own secret law
    As long ago I sought to understand
    Its golden mathematics; taught myself
    The way to lay one stone upon another,
    Before I dared to dream that I might build
    My Holy City of Song. I gave myself
    To all its branches. How they stared at me,
    Those men of "sensibility," when I said
    That algebra, conic sections, fluxions, all
    Pertained to music. Let them stare again.
    Old Kepler knew, by instinct, what I now
    Desire to learn. I have resolved to leave
    No tract of heaven unvisited.
                To-night
    --The music carries me back to it again!--
    I see beyond this island universe,
    Beyond our sun, and all those other suns
    That throng the Milky Way, far, far beyond,
    A thousand little wisps, faint nebulae,
    Luminous fans and milky streaks of fire;
    Some like soft brushes of electric mist
    Streaming from one bright point; others that spread
    And branch, like growing systems; others discrete,
    Keen, ripe, with stars in clusters; others drawn back
    By central forces into one dense death,
    Thence to be kindled into fire, reborn,
    And scattered abroad once more in a delicate spray
    Faint as the mist by one bright dewdrop breathed
    At dawn, and yet a universe like our own;
    Each wisp a universe, a vast galaxy
    Wide as our night of stars.
            The Milky Way
    In which our sun is drowned, to these would seem
    Less than to us their faintest drift of haze;
    Yet we, who are borne on one dark grain of dust
    Around one indistinguishable spark
    Of star-mist, lost in one lost feather of light,
    Can by the strength of our own thought, ascend
    Through universe after universe; trace their growth
    Through boundless time, their glory, their decay;
    And, on the invisible road of law, more firm
    Than granite, range through all their length and breadth,
    Their height and depth, past, present and to come.
    So, those who follow the great Work-master's law
    From small things up to great, may one day learn
    The structure of the heavens, discern the whole
    Within the part, as men through Love see God.
    Oh, holy night, deep night of stars, whose peace
    Descends upon the troubled mind like dew,
    Healing it with the sense of that pure reign
    Of constant law, enduring through all change;
    Shall I not, one day, after faithful years,
    Find that thy heavens are built on music, too,
    And hear, once more, above thy throbbing worlds
    This voice of all compassion, Comfort ye,--
    Yes--comfort ye, my people, saith your God?

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Type of Poem: Reflective Poem

Date Written:

Date Published:

Language: English

Keywords: Public Domain

Source: Public Domain Collection

Publisher:

Rights/Permissions: Public Domain

Comments/Notes: This poem is a complex and rich exploration of various themes, including passion, ambition, science, music, and the transient nature of life. The poet brings to life the character of a musician who is also deeply engrossed in the wonders of the universe. This interest in the cosmos is not only scientific but also philosophical, as the speaker contemplates the meaning of existence and the vastness of the universe in comparison to the fleeting nature of human life and achievements.

The tone of the poem is introspective and reflective, with the speaker constantly questioning and pondering. The structure is free verse, which gives the poet an opportunity to explore and delve into the mind of the speaker without the constraints of traditional poetic forms. Repetition is used effectively to emphasize the speaker's recurring thoughts. The poem also employs vivid imagery, particularly when describing the concert room and the universe. The contrast between these two settings underscores the dichotomy between the tangible, everyday world and the vast, mysterious cosmos.

The poem also showcases the speaker's struggle between his love for music and his scientific pursuits. This internal conflict is presented through the metaphor of leading two lives at once. The speaker ultimately chooses the stars, symbolizing his preference for scientific exploration over musical performance. This choice reflects the poem's overarching theme of transience versus permanence—the fleeting applause of an audience versus the enduring mysteries of the universe.

The poem ends on a note of hope and comfort, tying back to the themes of music and the cosmos. The speaker believes that he may one day find that the heavens are also built on music, a metaphor that beautifully fuses his two passions. This connection between music and the universe offers a sense of solace, suggesting that the speaker's choice to pursue science does not mean completely leaving behind his love for music. Instead, he envisions a grand cosmic orchestra where the laws of science and the harmony of music coexist, providing comfort and peace.