The harp the Monarch Minstrel swept
I
The harp the Monarch Minstrel swept,
The King of men, the lov'd of Heav'n,
Which Music hallowed while she wept
O'er tones her heart of hearts had giv'n,
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riv'n!
It soften'd men of iron mould,
It gave them virtues not their own;
No ear so dull, no soul so cold,
That felt not—fired not to the tone,
Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne!
II
It told the triumphs of our King—
It wafted glory to our God—
It made our gladdened vallies ring—
The cedars bow—the mountains nod—
Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode!
Since then—though heard on earth no more—
Devotion and her daughter Love
Still bid the bursting spirit soar
To sounds that seem as from above
In dreams that day's broad light can not remove.
poem by Byron from The Hebrew Melodies (1815)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
To a friend, on being asked for some verses
I thought the Soul of Song had made
This heart of mine her sepulchre;
For all her golden dreams had fled,
And I could win no note from her.
But when for thee thou bid'st her sing,
That spell dissolves her icy chain;
She slowly plumes her drooping wing,
And strikes her shattered chords again.
For more than lifeless would she be,
If thou shouldst bid her wake in vain;
And lost her chords, if still for thee
She could not wake one living strain.
For thee -- that hours of deep distress,
And days of gloom with kindness lit,
Till half I blessed the bitterness
That gave me thee to sweeten it.
For thee -- that when, despairing long,
I said, "No friend has earth for me,"
Didst bid the tones die on my tongue,
And I could utter, "only thee."
For thee -- that when my mother earth
Shall call me to her sheltering breast,
Of all I know wilt weep alone
Above my nameless place of rest.
But see! her wings refuse to fly;
Her chords are harsh from silence long;
Alas! thy gentle sorcery
Hath summoned but the ghost of Song.
She hovers o'er her living tomb,
She seeks once more her grave and chain,
As spectres haunt the midnight gloom:
Sweet friend, awake her not again.
If o'er the wind harp's gentle strings
The threatening tempest rudely flies,
It does not wake more thrilling strains --
The chords are rent, the music dies.
Thus is my harp, thus is my song --
I woo in vain its sweetness fled,
The storms have swept the chords too long,
The music of my soul is dead.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Song Of The Harp
Angel play upon your harp.
Play it soft and clear.
If I listen long enough
maybe I will hear
all the tones that vibrate,
reaching through the spheres.
Angel play upon your harp
sweet music for my ears.
All the sounds that reach our young
are not too heavenly.
Their music is just so much noise,
I know it cannot be
music that an angel plays,
music that is sweet.
All they seem to want is
a steady throbbing beat.
Angel play upon your harp.
Play it night and day.
Maybe they might listen
to the silken tones you play.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Minstrel Boy
The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell! -- but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery."
poem by Thomas Moore
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Unstrung
My skies were blue, and my sun was bright,
And, with fingers tender and strong and light,
He woke up the music that slept before—
Echoing, echoing evermore!
By-and-by, my skies grew grey;—
No master-touch on the harp-strings lay,—
Dead silence cradled the notes divine:
His soul had wander'd away from mine.
Idly, o'er strange harps swept his hand,
Seeking for music more wild and grand.
He wearied at last of his fruitless quest,
And he came again to my harp for rest.
But the dust lay thick on the golden wires,
And they would not thrill to the old desires.
The chords, so broken and jarred with pain,
Could never be tender and sweet again.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Sonnet IX: Passion And Worship
One flame-winged brought a white-winged harp-player
Even where my lady and I lay all alone;
Saying: “Behold, this minstrel is unknown;
Bid him depart, for I am minstrel here:
Only my strains are to Love's dear ones dear.”
Then said I: “Through thine hautboy's rapturous tone
Unto my lady still this harp makes moan,
And still she deems the cadence deep and clear.”
Then said my lady: “Thou art Passion of Love,
And this Love's Worship: both he plights to me.
Thy mastering music walks the sunlit sea:
But where wan water trembles in the grove
And the wan moon is all the light thereof,
This harp still makes my name its voluntary.”
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Shadows within Shadows
Come with me in the shadows, come
Way beyond the caravan way
Drum out the fear and hear the drum
Play minstrel play; play minstrel play
Burn the candles ‘n smell 'em burn
Daylight is gone, this is your day
Learn the music that shadows learn
Play minstrel play; play minstrel play
Romance in shadows sweet romance
Sway to music, let your heart sway
Dance with dancers, join in their dance
Play minstrel play; play minstrel play
Come with me in the shadows, come
Play minstrel play; play minstrel play
__________________________________
Shadow Sonnet
Giudelines found here:
http: //www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/types.html
poem by Amera Andersen
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Lost Tears (an ode to children of alcoholics)
LOST TEARS
To all the boys who never cried
My heart it weeps for you
Longing for a fathers touch
Slipping slowly out of view
A hand it reached within my chest
And entwined around my heart
With every beat the fingers grew
Until they covered every part
And keys would fumble in the door
What would this dark night bring
And in from the night the tyrant came
The beggars received their king
To bow and scrape, perhaps defuse
To laugh at every joke
Perhaps the tyrant king would sleep
Perhaps we would provoke
With every night the fire dies
Embers of the heart recede
The king is god, he rules supreme
Don't hurt our mum the children plead
And darkness overcomes the soul
Into the night the children flee
And all around the curtains fall
And when they fall you cannot see
Who will rid us of this endless night
The blackness and the shades of gray
For beneath the pillow held so tight
Is not a place where children play
Why do these tears that belong to you
Fall down from upon my face
For once I dwelt in shadowland
Its now your dwelling place
So if you wander in the night
A night within your heart
The true King sees behind your veil
He sees you play the part
Oh wont you come on bended knee
And find the tears you lost
The true King longs to set you free
And that at any cost
Don't you long to see the sun
And feel its warm embrace
A heart of flesh and not of steel
And tears upon your face
My God He is the tears you lost
Living waters from above
He restores the broken and the crushed
With Godly tears of love
The true King wept when you could not
He wept to see His Son
And with those tears on Calvary fought
And now the work is done
Come out from amongst the dead He cries
And He will deal with all your fears
For every time you could not cry
My God He shed your tears
And all these tears He's gathered
And they flow from Heavens throne
And when your swept up in this tide
You'll know you were not alone
poem by Frank McEleny
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Music to Me
Music to me is always you.
Wild chords that surround my heart
that shiver inside me and break apart
into little pieces of solitary tones
that create in me passionate moans.
Music to me will always be you.
Soft lilting melodies that lift me high
and keep me breathless to satisfy
each part of my body and my soul
like the crescendo of a drummer's roll.
Music to me is your sweet touch.
Syncopated rhythms that make me blush
increase my libido and create my purrs.
For whenever the music in me stirs
I feel as if you are here.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A Perfect Strain
O BID the minstrel tune his harp,
And bid the minstrel sing;
And let it be a perfect strain
That round the hall shall ring:
A strain to throb in lady's heart,
To brim the warrior's soul,
As dew fills up the summer rose
And wine the lordly bowl!
O let the minstrel's voice ring clear,
His touch sweep gay and light;
Nor let his glittering tresses know
One streak of wintry white.
And let the light of ruddy June
Shine in his joyous eyes,
If he would wake the only strain
That never fully dies!
O what the strain that woos the knight
To turn from steed and lance,
The page to turn from hound and hawk,
The maid from lute and dance;
The potent strain, that nigh would draw
The hermit from his cave,
The dryad from the leafy oak,
The mermaid from the wave;
That almost might still charm the hawk
To drop the trembling dove?
O ruddy minstrel, tune thy harp,
And sing of Youthful Love!
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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That Music Extraordinaire, Mozart
That music extraordinaire, Mozart,
Who from his tender days, played with desire
Musical from the bottom of his heart.
Sweet notes from his music he did impart
That captivated audience to admire
That music extraordinaire, Mozart,
Whose tones can set an emotion to start
With a charm to have their hearts raised on fire
Musical from the bottom of his heart.
With pleasant pace from his great style of art
Is such that shows he was such a live wire,
That music extraordinaire, Mozart,
Whose harmony when heard is nice and smart
Can cheerfully raise hearts to go much higher
Musical from the bottom of his heart.
Joy occurs from such wonders that does chart
In tremendous ways that truly inspire.
That music extraordinaire, Mozart,
Musical from the bottom of his heart.
poem by Obinna Kenechukwu Eruchie
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We Sate Down And Wept By The Waters
I.
We sate down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.
II.
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which roll'd on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
III.
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!
From: A King Of Kings, A King Among The Kings
Come, let us rejoice in James Joyce, in the greatness of this poet,
king, and king of poets
For he is our poor dead king, he is the monarch and Caesar of English,
he is the veritable King of the King's English
The English of the life of the city,
and the English of music;
Let them rejoice because he rejoiced and was joyous;
For his joy was superior, it was supreme, for it was accomplished
After the suffering of much evil, the evil of the torment of pride,
By the overcoming of disgust and despair by means of the confrontation of them
By the enduring of nausea, the supporting of exile, the drawing from
the silence of exile, the pure arias of the
hidden music of all things, all beings.
For the joy of Joyce was earned by the sweat of the bow of his mind
by the tears of the agony of his heart;
hence it was gained, mastered, and conquered,
(hence it was not a gift and freely given,
a mercy often granted to masters,
as if they miraculous were natural -)
For he earned his joy and ours by the domination of evil by
confrontation and the exorcism of language
in all its powers of imitation and
imagination and radiance and delight....
poem by Delmore Schwartz
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Where Are They?
I came to the halls of my fathers, and asked, “Where are they?”
and the echoes answered “where.”
Where are they? where! they all are gone,
Whose smiles were wont to answer mine,
When in the hours that long have flown,
These halls were fond affection's shrine?
Gray moss is on the smooth flag-stone,
That once was worn with bounding feet,
When eyes, now dim, all brightly shone,
And minstrel's song resounded sweet.
The harp still decks the mouldering walls,
With all its tuneful chords unstrung,
And silent are the echoing halls,
Where oft the merry laugh has rung.
Where now are all the lips and eyes,
Whose smiles once cheer'd my native bower?
And where are those whose parting sighs,
I've treasured many a weary hour?
There many a cheek was wet with tears,
And choking voices sigh'd adieu,
But now no friendly form appears,
Of all the wanderer's childhood knew.
I called, Where are they? but in vain—
There was no friend to greet me there—
The harp's last chord then burst in twain,
And echo only answer'd “Where?”
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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As It Is In Heaven
Lyrics: traditional
Music: michael w. smith
Our father, which art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Our father, which art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done
On earth as it is in heaven
Our father, which art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Hallowed be thy name
Our father, which art in heaven
Our father
Hallowed be thy name
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done
On earth as it is in heaven
Give us this day
Our daily bread
And forgive us our debts
As we forgive our debtors
Our father, which art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Our father, which art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us, deliver us from evil
For thine is the kingdom, and all the power
And the glory
Forever amen
Our father, which art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done
On earth as it is in heaven
song performed by by Michael W. Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We sate down and wept by the waters of Babel
I
We sate down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.
II
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which roll'd on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
III
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!
poem by Byron from The Hebrew Melodies (1815)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The monarch
Monarch guarantees
Kingship for life time
And inheritance of throne.
So king need not be corrupt.
The king himself the judge,
Unanswerable and unquestionable,
He becomes an autocrat.
Is monarch good or bad?
09.03.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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My Native Land!
WHERE is the minstrel's native land?
Where the flames of light and feeling glow;
Where the flowers are wreathed for beauty's brow;
Where the bounding heart swells strong and high,
With holy hopes which may not die--
There is my native land!
What is that bright land's music name?
Ere it bent its neck to a foreign yoke,
It was called the land of the broad strong oak--
The land of the free--the German land--
But her sons lie slain by the stranger's hand,
And she weeps sad tears of shame.
Why does the minstrel's country weep?
That the hurricane's rage hath bowed the pride
Of those who should stem the rising tide;
That her princes quail--and that none will hear
Her holy words of might and fear--
Therefore my land must weep!
To whom does the minstrel's country call?
It calls to the silent heavenly powers,
With despair, as the thunder darkly lowers,
For its freedom--for those who should break its chain--
For the hand that never strikes in vain--
To these doth my country call!
For what does the minstrel's country sigh?
That the bloodhound may hunt beyond the bound
Of the soil which brave hearts make holy ground;
That the serf may cease; and our sons be free,
Or those who have borne them, cease to be--
For this does my country sigh!
And still doth the minstrel's country hope?
Her hope is firm, for her cause is good--
That her brave will rise, and her true in blood;
And that God the avenger, our fathers' God,
Will mark the tears that bedew her sod--
Such is my country's hope!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Regret
He sobbed. She wept.
They cried so many tears.
They'd held them in
for too many years.
It was good to feel
the tears all flow.
It lightened their hearts
and let them know
that foolish pride
had held tears back.
It created a wall
and no contact.
What caused the fight?
the memory of it gone.
They faced bitterness
on each new dawn.
He sobbed. She wept.
They dried their tears
and forgave each other
for the rest of their years.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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August Rush
At a time of the year,
The market day is near.
Little children so much prepares that the day is scared.
To my cloudy avail they really be no fear,
Even here, there and then.
My whole world shouts to the thin air,
In merriment of the family that will repair.
Shh!
You wouldn’t hear,
Besides, the noise and clangings of our ears,
Is profitable for the wiping of our tears.
No rearing of any lost,
And daring to us.
I shall bear witness to a souvenir at my door.
So of, I go to Julliard,
Where the people are beautifully at,
With great music listened by my heart,
And my lad being so glad,
Enjoying the tones of what is heard,
The music from the soul of soundless harp,
Beautifully gambol around like a watery drought,
Putting smiles in faces of our’s.
For no reason else is the reason for the rush in August,
Than to listen for hours, to the only August rush.
Tare-otu IV
poem by KENNEDY Tareotu
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The King Of Broken Hearts
The king of broken hearts doesnt ask much from his friends
And he has quite a few of them
They know he will understand
Thats just the way it goes
Theking of broken hearts doesnt know hes a king
Hes tryin to forget other things
Like some old ship at sea
Hes walkin through life alone
He talks to angels
And the stars start to spin
He thinks of troubles that hes gotten in
He recalls how his heart got broken
And how its still that way
The king of broken hearts is so sad and wise
He can smile while hes cryin inside
We know hell be brave tonight
Cause hes the king of broken hearts
He talks to angels
And the stars start to spin
He thinks of the troubles that hes gotten in
He recalls how his heart got broken
And how its still that way
The king of broken hearts thinks that hes no fool
Hes a little like me and you
So whats a king like that supposed to do
With all that blue time
We know hell be brave tonight
Cause hes the king of broken hearts
Hes the king of broken hearts
song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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