SILENCE: the sunset gilds the frozen ground,
But here within all's curtained; stands are set
In the wide salon where gilt chairs abound,
And eager listeners wait. The band is met
Whose tuning sheds a cheerful hum around:
Prophetic notes! The tapers brighten at the sound.

The scattered sheets of music on the floor
Reflect a lustre from the yellow flame.
My sight dissolves. . . . Lo, Haydn at the door
Enters like some stiff angel from his frame,
Bearing the bundle of his latest score
Which he distributes, smiling to the blessed four.

Haydn is dead, you say? He dies no more
So long as these shall meet. A magic wand
Brings the old Master through the shadowy door,
And upright in the midst his soul doth stand,
While through the chords his sunny force doth pour.
Ah Haydn, hast thou truly ever lived before?

O intimate acquaintance! When we meet
The hearts of old musicians, there is shown
A conversation deeper and more sweet
Than all save saints or lovers e'er have known.
Is there an earthly friendship so complete
As this, that in a heaven-born passion hath its seat?

The gods and half-gods meet us everywhere
But are at home in Music. There they live
In privacy: Apollo suns his hair,
And Aphrodite to the stars doth give
The more-than-mortal eyes that almost stare,
So wide they are, so open and so unaware.

And while the gods do strum and tune a lay
To please their godships,—there comes creeping in
de Coppet with his crew to steal away
The sacred fire. The trembling violin,
Bratsche and cello, which his pirates play
Bear the bright flame,—yes, undiminished reconvey.

We are those guests who knew the joy sincere
Of that Promethean plunder; and to-night
Are wiser for the start of many a tear
That chased surprisèd beauty in her flight,
And happier for those hours of inward cheer,
The thought of which, dear hosts of many days, doth draw us here.