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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE OF IMPORTANCE: CHARLES AVISON, by ROBERT BROWNING Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: How strange! But, first of all, the little fact Last Line: "westminster's pym!" Subject(s): Avison, Charles (1709-1770); Composers; Music & Musicians | |||
I How strange! -- but, first of all, the little fact Which led my fancy forth. This bitter morn Showed me no object in the stretch forlorn Of garden-ground beneath my window, backed By you worn wall wherefrom the creeper, tacked To clothe its brickwork, hangs now, rent and racked By five months' cruel winter, -- showed no torn And tattered ravage worse for eyes to see Than just one ugly space of clearance, left Bare even of the bones which used to be Warm wrappage, safe embracement: this one cleft -- -- Oh, what a life and beauty filled it up Startlingly, when methought the rude clay cup Ran over with poured bright wine! 'T was a bird Breast-deep there, tugging at his prize, deterred No whit by the fast-falling snow-flake: gain Such prize my blackcap must by might and main -- The cloth-shred, still a-flutter from its nail That fixed a spray once. Now, what told the tale To thee, -- no townsman but born orchard-thief, -- That here -- surpassing moss-tuft, beard from sheaf Of sun-scorched barley, horsehairs long and stout, All proper country-pillage -- here, no doubt, Was just the scrap to steal should line thy nest Superbly? Off he flew, his bill possessed The booty sure to set his wife's each wing Greenly a-quiver. How they climb and cling, Hang parrot-wise to bough, these blackcaps! Strange Seemed to a city-dweller that the finch Should stray so far to forage: at a pinch, Was not the fine wool's self within his range -- Filchings on every fence? But no: the need Was of this rag of manufacture, spoiled By art, and yet by nature near unsoiled, New-suited to what scheming finch would breed In comfort, this uncomfortable March. II Yet -- by the first pink blossom on the larch! -- This was scarce stranger than that memory, -- In want of what should cheer the stay-at-home, My soul, -- must straight clap pinion, well-nigh roam A century back, nor once close plume, descry The appropriate rag to plunder, till she pounced -- Pray, on what relic of a brain long still? What old-world work proved forage for the bill Of memory the far-flyer? "March" announced, I verily believe, the dead and gone Name of a music-maker: one of such In England as did little or did much, But, doing, had their day once. Avison! Singly and solely for an air of thine, Bold-stepping "March," foot stept to ere my hand Could stretch an octave, I o'erlooked the band Of majesties familiar, to decline On thee -- not too conspicuous on the list Of worthies who by help of pipe or wire Expressed in sound rough rage or soft desire -- Thou, whilom of Newcastle organist! III So much could one -- well, thinnish air effect! Am I ungrateful? for, your March, styled "Grand," Did veritably seem to grow, expand, And greaten up to title as, unchecked, Dream-marchers marched, kept marching, slow and sure, In time, to tune, unchangeably the same, From nowhere into nowhere, -- out they came, Onward they passed, and in they went. No lure Of novel modulation pricked the flat Forthright persisting melody, -- no hint That discord, sound asleep beneath the flint, Struck -- might spring spark-like, claim due tit-for-tat, Quenched in a concord. No! Yet, such the might Of quietude's immutability, That somehow coldness gathered warmth, well-nigh Quickened -- which could not be! -- grew burning-bright With fife-shriek, cymbal-clash and trumpet-blare, To drum-accentuation: pacing turned Striding, and striding grew gigantic, spurned At last the narrow space 'twixt earth and air, So shook me back into my sober self. IV And where woke I? The March had set me down There whence I plucked the measure, as his brown Frayed flannel-bit my blackcap. Great John Relfe, Master of mine, learned, redoubtable, It little needed thy consummate skill To fitly figure such a bass! The key Was -- should not memory play me false -- well, C. Ay, with the Greater Third, in Triple Time, Three crochets to a bar: no change, I grant, Except from Tonic down to Dominant. And yet -- and yet -- if I could put in rhyme The manner of that marching! -- which had stopped -- I wonder, where? -- but that my weak self dropped From out the ranks, to rub eyes disentranced And feel that, after all the way advanced, Back must I foot it, I and my compeers, Only to reach, across a hundred years, The bandsman Avison whose little book And large tune thus had led me the long way (As late a rag my blackcap) from to-day And to-day's music-manufacture, -- Brahms, Wagner, Dvorak, Liszt, -- to where -- trumpets, shawms, Show yourselves joyful! -- Handel reigns -- supreme? By no means! Buononcini's work is theme For fit laudation of the impartial few: (We stand in England, mind you!) Fashion too Favors Geminiani -- of those choice Concertos: nor there wants a certain voice Raised in thy favor likewise, famed Pepusch Dear to our great-grandfathers! In a bush Of Doctor's wig, they prized thee timing beats While Greenway trilled "Alexis." Such were feats Of music in thy day -- dispute who list -- Avison, of Newcastle organist! V And here's your music all alive once more -- As once it was alive, at least: just so The figured worthies of a waxwork-show Attest -- such people, years and years ago, Looked thus when outside death had life be low, -- Could say "We are now" not "We were of yore," -- "Feel how our pulses leap!" and not "Ex plore -- Explain why quietude has settled o'er Surface once all awork!" Ay, such a "Suite" Roused heart to rapture, such a "Fugue" would catch Soul heavenwards up, when time was: why attach Blame to exhausted faultlessness, no match For fresh achievement? Feat once -- ever feat! How can completion grow still more complete? Hear Avison! He tenders evidence That music in his day as much absorbed Heart and soul then as Wagner's music now, Perfect from centre to circumference -- Orbed to the full can be but fully orbed: And yet -- and yet -- whence comes it that "O Thou" -- Sighed by the soul at eve to Hesperus -- Will not again take wing and fly away (Since fatal Wagner fixed it fast for us) In some unmodulated minor? Nay. Even by Handel's help! VI I state it thus: There is no truer truth obtainable By Man than comes of music. "Soul" -- (accept A word which vaguely names what no adept In word-use fits and fixes so that still Thing shall not slip word's fetter and remain Innominate as first, yet, free again, Is no less recognized the absolute Fact underlying that same other fact Concerning which no cavil can dispute Our nomenclature when we call it "Mind" -- Something not Matter) -- "Soul," who seeks shall find Distinct beneath that something. You exact An illustrative image? This may suit. VII We see a work: the worker works behind, Invisible himself. Suppose his act Be to o'erarch a gulf: he digs, transports, Shapes and, through enginery -- all sizes, sorts, Lays stone by stone until a floor compact Proves our bridged causeway. So works Mind -- by stress Of faculty, with loose facts, more or less, Builds up our solid knowledge: all the same, Underneath rolls what Mind may hide not tame, An element which works beyond our guess, Soul, the unsounded sea -- whose lift of surge, Spite of all superstructure, lets emerge, In flower and foam, Feeling from out the deeps Mind arrogates no mastery upon -- Distinct indisputably. Has there gone To dig up, drag forth, render smooth from rough Mind's flooring, -- operosity enough? Still the successive labor of each inch, Who lists may learn: from the last turn of winch That let the polished slab-stone find its place, To the first prod of pickaxe at the base Of the unquarried mountain, -- what was all Mind's varied process except natural, Nay, easy even, to descry, describe, After our fashion? "So worked Mind: its tribe Of senses ministrant above, below, Far, near, or now or haply long ago Brought to pass knowledge." But Soul's sea -- drawn whence, Fed how, forced whither, -- by what evidence Of ebb and flow, that's felt beneath the tread, Soul has its course 'neath Mind's work overhead, -- Who tells of, tracks to source the founts of Soul? Yet wherefore heaving sway and restless roll This side and that, except to emulate Stability above? To match and mate Feeling with knowledge, -- make as manifest Soul's work as Mind's work, turbulence as rest, Hates, loves, joys, woes, hopes, fears, that rise and sink Ceaselessly, passion's transient flit and wink, A ripple's tinting or a spume-sheet's spread Whitening the wave, -- to strike all this life dead, Run mercury into a mould like lead, And henceforth have the plain result to show -- How we Feel, hard and fast as what we Know -- This were the prize and is the puzzle! -- which Music essays to solve: and here's the hitch That balks her of full triumph else to boast. VIII All Arts endeavor this, and she the most Attains thereto, yet fails of touching: why? Does Mind get Knowledge from Art's ministry? What's known once is known ever: Arts arrange, Dissociate, re-distribute, interchange Part with part, lengthen, broaden, high or deep Construct their bravest, -- still such pains produce Change, not creation: simply what lay loose At first lies firmly after, what design Was faintly traced in hesitating line Once on a time, grows firmly resolute Henceforth and evermore. Now, could we shoot Liquidity into a mould, -- some way Arrest Soul's evanescent moods, and keep Unalterably still the forms that leap To life for once by help of Art! -- which yearns To save its capture: Poetry discerns, Painting is 'ware of passion's rise and fall, Bursting, subsidence, intermixture -- all A-seethe within the gulf. Each Art a-strain Would stay the apparition, -- nor in vain: The Poet's word-mesh, Painter's sure and swift Color-and-line-throw -- proud the prize they lift! Thus felt Man and thus looked Man, --passions caught I' the midway swim of sea, -- not much, if aught, Of nether-brooding loves, hates, hopes and fears, Enwombed past Art's disclosure. Fleet the years, And still the Poet's page holds Helena At gaze from topmost Troy -- "But where are they, My brothers, in the armament I name Hero by hero? Can it be that shame For their lost sister holds them from the war?" -- Knowing not they already slept afar Each of them in his own dear native land. Still on the Painter's fresco, from the hand Of God takes Eve the life-spark whereunto She trembles up from nothingness. Outdo Both of them, Music! Dredging deeper yet, Drag into day, -- by sound, thy master-net, -- The abysmal bottom-growth, ambiguous thing Unbroken of a branch, palpitating With limbs' play and life's semblance! There it lies, Marvel and mystery, of mysteries And marvels, most to love and laud thee for! Save it from chance and change we most abhor! Give momentary feeling permanence, So that thy capture hold, a century hence, Truth's very heart of truth as, safe to-day, The Painter's Eve, the Poet's Helena Still rapturously bend, afar still throw The wistful gaze! Thanks, Homer, Angelo! Could Music rescue thus from Soul's profound, Give feeling immortality by sound, Then were she queenliest of Arts! Alas -- As well expect the rainbow not to pass! "Praise 'Radamisto' -- love attains therein To perfect utterance! Pity -- what shall win Thy secret like 'Rinaldo'?" -- so men said: Once all was perfume -- now, the flower is dead -- They spied tints, sparks have left the spar! Love, hate, Joy, fear, survive, -- alike importunate As ever to go walk the world again, Nor ghost-like pant for outlet all in vain Till Music loose them, fit each filmily With form enough to know and name it by For any recognizer sure of ken And sharp of ear, no grosser denizen Of earth than needs be. Nor to such appeal Is Music long obdurate: off they steal -- How gently, dawn-doomed phantoms! back come they Full-blooded with new crimson of broad day -- Passion made palpable once more. Ye look Your last on Handel? Gaze your first on Gluck! Why wistful search, O waning ones, the chart Of stars for you while Haydn, while Mozart Occupies heaven? These also, fanned to fire, Flamboyant wholly, -- so perfections tire, -- Whiten to wanness, till ... let others note The ever-new invasion! IX I devote Rather my modicum of parts to use What power may yet avail to re-infuse (In fancy, please you!) sleep that looks like death With momentary liveliness, lend breath To make the torpor half inhale. O Relfe, An all-unworthy pupil, from the shelf Of thy laboratory, dares unstop Bottle, ope box, extract thence pinch and drop Of dusts and dews a many thou didst shrine Each in its right receptacle, assign To each its proper office, letter large Label and label, then with solemn charge, Reviewing learnedly the list complete Of chemical reactives, from thy feet Push down the same to me, attent below, Power in abundance: armed wherewith I go to play the enlivener. Bring good antique stuff! Was it alight once? Still lives spark enough For breath to quicken, run the smouldering ash Red right-through. What, "stone-dead" were fools so rash As style my Avison, because he lacked Modern appliance, spread out phrase unracked By modulations fit to make each hair Stiffen upon his wig? See there -- and there! I sprinkle my reactives, pitch broadcast Discords and resolutions, turn aghast Melody's easy-going, jostle law With license, modulate (no Bach in awe) Change enharmonically (Hudl to thank) And lo, upstart the flamelets, -- what was blank Turns scarlet, purple, crimson! Straightway scanned By eyes that like new lustre -- Love once more Yearns through the Largo, Hatred as before Rages in the Rubato: e'en thy March, My Avison, which, sooth to say -- (ne'er arch Eyebrows in anger!) -- timed, in Georgian years The step precise of British Grenadiers To such a nicety, -- if score I crowd, If rhythm I break, if beats I vary, -- tap At bar's off-starting turns true thunder-clap, Ever the pace augmented till -- what's here? Titanic striding toward Olympus! X Fear No such irreverent innovation! Still Glide on, go rolling, water-like, at will -- Nay, were thy melody in monotone, The due three-parts dispensed with! XI This alone Comes of my tiresome talking: Music's throne Seats somebody whom somebody unseats, And whom in turn -- by who knows what new feats Of strength -- shall somebody as sure push down, Consign him dispossessed of sceptre, crown, And orb imperial -- whereto? Never dream That what once lived shall ever die! They seem Dead -- do they? lapsed things lost in limbo? Bring Our life to kindle theirs, and straight each king Starts, you shall see, stands up, from head to foot No inch that is not Purcell! Wherefore? (Suit Measure to subject, first -- no marching on Yet in thy bold C major, Avison, As suited step a minute since: no: wait -- Into the minor key first modulate -- Gently with A, now -- in the Lesser Third!) XII Of all the lamentable debts incurred By Man through buying knowledge, this were worst: That he should find his last gain prove his first Was futile -- merely nescience absolute, Not knowledge in the bud which holds a fruit Haply undreamed of in the soul's Spring-tide, Pursed in the petals Summer opens wide, And Autumn, withering, rounds to perfect ripe, -- Not this, -- but ignorance, a blur to wipe From human records, late it graced so much. "Truth -- this attainment? Ah, but such and such Beliefs of yore seemed inexpugnable When we attained them! E'en as they, so will This their successor have the due morn, noon, Evening and night -- just as an old - world tune Wears out and drops away, until who hears Smilingly questions -- 'This it was brought tears Once to all eyes, -- this roused heart's rapture once?' So will it be with truth that, for the nonce, Styles itself truth perennial: 'ware its wile! Knowledge turns nescience, -- foremost on the file, Simply proves first of our delusions." XIII Now -- Blare it forth, bold C major! Lift thy brow, Man, the immortal, that wast never fooled With gifts no gifts at all, nor ridiculed -- Man knowing -- he who nothing knew! As Hope, Fear, Joy, and Grief, -- though ampler stretch and scope They seek and find in novel rhythm, fresh phrase, -- Were equally existent in far days Of Music's dim beginning -- even so, Truth was at full within thee long ago, Alive as now it takes what latest shape May startle thee by strangeness. Truths escape Time's insufficient garniture: they fade, They fall -- those sheathings now grown sere, whose aid Was infinite to truth they wrapped, saved fine And free through March frost: May dews crystalline Nourish truth merely, -- does June boast the fruit As -- not new vesture merely but, to boot, Novel creation? Soon shall fade and fall Myth after myth -- the husk-like lies I call New truth's corolla-safeguard: Autumn comes, So much the better! XIV Therefore -- bang the drums Blow the trumpets, Avison! March-motive? that's Truth which endures resetting. Sharps and flats, Lavish at need, shall dance athwart thy score When ophicleide and bombardon's uproar Mate the approaching trample, even now Big in the distance -- or my ears deceive -- Of federated England, fitly weave March-music for the Future! XV Or suppose Back, and not forward, transformation goes? Once more some sable-stoled procession -- say From Little-ease to Tyburn -- wends its way, Out of the dungeon to the gallows-tree Where heading, hacking, hanging is to be Of half-a-dozen recusants -- this day Three hundred years ago! How duly drones Elizabethan plain-song -- dim antique Grown clarion-clear the while I humbly wreak A classic vengeance on thy March! It moans -- Larges and Longs and Breves displacing quite Crotchet-and-quaver pertness -- brushing bars Aside and filling vacant sky with stars Hidder till now that day return to night. XVI Nor night nor day: one purpose move us both Be thy mood mine! As thou wast minded, Man's The cause our music champions: I were loth To think we cheered our troop to Preston Pans Ignobly: back to times of England's best! Parliament stands for privilege -- life and limb Guards Hollis, Haselrig, Strode, hampden, Pym, The famous Five. There's rumor of arrest Bring up the Train Bands, Southwark! They protest: Shall we not all join chorus? Hark the hymn, -- Rough, rude, robustious -- homely heart throb, Harsh voice a-hallo, as beseems the mob! How good is noise! what's silence but de spair Of making sound match gladness never there? Give me some great glad "subject," glorious Bach, Where cannon-roar not organ-peal we lack! Join in, give voice robustious rude and rough, -- Avison helps -- so heart lend noise enough! Fife, trump, drum, sound! and singers then Marching say "Pym, the man of men!" Up, heads, your proudest, -- out throats, your loudest -- "Somerset's Pym!" Strafford from the block, Eliot from the den, Foes, friends, shout "Pym, our citizen!" Wail, the foes he quelled, -- hail, the friends he held, "Tavistock's Pym!" Hearts prompt heads, hands that ply the pen Teach babes unborn the where and when. -- Tyrants, he braved them, -- patriots, he saved them -- "Westminster's Pym!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LINER NOTES TO AN IMAGINARY PLAYLIST by TERRANCE HAYES VARIATIONS: 13 by CONRAD AIKEN BELIEVE, BELIEVE by BOB KAUFMAN ROUND ABOUT MIDNIGHT by BOB KAUFMAN MUSIC by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES THE POWER OF MUSIC by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME' by ROBERT BROWNING |
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