Blanch not, O trembling mortal! But with extreme and terrible delight Know thou the truth, Nor let thy heart be heavy with false ruth. No passing burden is our earthly sorrow, That shall depart in some mysterious morrow. 'Tis His one universe where'er we are— One changeless law from sun to viewless star. Were sorrow evil here, evil it were forever, Beyond the scope and help of our most keen endeavor God doth not dote, His everlasting purpose shall not fail. Here where our ears are weary with the wail And weeping of the sufferers; there where the Pleiads float— Here, there, forever, pain most dread and dire Doth bring the intensest bliss, the dearest and most sure. 'Tis not from Life aside, it doth endure Deep in the secret heart of all existence. It is the inward fire, The heavenly urge, and the divine insistence. Uplift thine eyes, O Questioner, from the sod! It were no longer Life, If ended were the strife; Man were not man, God were not truly God. [Pg 6352] "HOW PADEREWSKI PLAYS" I If songs were perfume, color, wild desire; If poets' words were fire That burned to blood in purple-pulsing veins; If with a bird-like thrill the moments throbbed to hours; If summer's rains Turned drop by drop to shy, sweet, maiden flowers; If God made flowers with light and music in them, And saddened hearts could win them; If loosened petals touched the ground With a caressing sound; If love's eyes uttered word No listening lover e'er before had heard; If silent thoughts spake with a bugle's voice; If flame passed into song and cried, "Rejoice! Rejoice!" If words could picture life's, hope's, heaven's eclipse When the last kiss has fallen on dying eyes and lips; If all of mortal woe Struck on one heart with breathless blow on blow; If melody were tears, and tears were starry gleams That shone in evening's amethystine dreams; Ah yes, if notes were stars, each star a different hue, Trembling to earth in dew; Or if the boreal pulsings, rose and white, Made a majestic music in the night; If all the orbs lost in the light of day In the deep, silent blue began their harps to play; And when in frightening skies the lightnings flashed And storm-clouds crashed, If every stroke of light and sound were but excess of beauty; If human syllables could e'er refashion That fierce electric passion; If other art could match (as were the poet's duty) The grieving, and the rapture, and the thunder Of that keen hour of wonder,— That light as if of heaven, that blackness as of hell,— How Paderewski plays then might I dare to tell. II How Paderewski plays! And was it he Or some disbodied spirit which had rushed From silence into singing; and had crushed [Pg 6353]Into one startled hour a life's felicity, And highest bliss of knowledge—that all life, grief, wrong, Turn at the last to beauty and to song! THE SONNET What is a sonnet? 'Tis the pearly shell That murmurs of the far-off murmuring sea;