His Work and Ideals by With Poetical Interpretations by the Author New York Dedicated to MRS. ALINE REESE BLONDNER Founder and Honorary President of the MacDowell Club of Nashville, Tennessee. EDWARD MACDOWELL   His Work and Ideals   To MacDowell   A. D. 1620   Song   In Deep Woods   Shadow Dance   At an Old Trysting-Place   To a Water Lily   Told at Sunset   To a Wild Rose   The Spirit Call   A Deserted Farm   In Memoriam...

This is not merely an appreciation of Edward MacDowell as a man and a composer, but a study of the influences and natural endowments that combined to produce his style, a comparison of his work with that of others who achieved fame in other branches of the fine arts, all of which he felt were closely allied and supplemental, and a glance at his ideals and their evolution at Peterboro. Most of his compositions are written around some poetic idea and are so suggestive and appealing to the imaginat

"Late explorers say they have found some nations that have no God; but I have not read of any that had no music." "Music means harmony, harmony means love, love means—God." —SIDNEY LANIER. "Music is love in search of a word," said the same poet-musician. He was born full of the music and the love, and so was enabled to find and transmit to the world the undying word. One cannot be a true poet, it seems to me, without at least an abiding love and sympathetic appreciation of the finest in music, o

By ELIZABETH FRY PAGE   Now, in the darkness, mute, from hour to hour,   Sits one who lov'd all life, and from the strings   Of well-tuned harp brought sounds of common things,   And sang of sea and wood and tree and flow'r.   His task all done, fled usefulness and pow'r,   Through the deep shade his uncurbed fancy wings,   While with his fame his proud land loudly rings,   And praise falls on his work in lavish show'r.   The rosemary we bring, and no rude hand   The laurel would withhold, the p

  Exiled from home, for sake of faith held dear,   To distant shores the Pilgrim Fathers turned.   Their grief-stung hearts for Freedom's blessing yearned,   Where persecution's lash they need not fear.   In stately ships they sailed the ocean drear,   And more of trial and of hardship learned;   But in their loyal bosoms still there burned   Religious zeal that lent heroic cheer.   One hundred souls from Mother England came,   And many days fared on a storm-tossed sea,   Men, women, children, t

  A merry song the pilgrim sang   To check the sigh of pain,   At thought of leaving his dear home   He ne'er might see again.   'Twas o-ho-ho and ah-ha-ha,   He laughed and sang alway;   When comrades' eyes were filled with tears,   Or sad heads turned away.   A cheery song, a merry song,   As o'er Life's sea we sail,   Will send a thrill of courage new   To hearts about to fail.   So sound a note, oh singer brave,   Whate'er your own soul's pain;   When time repeats its echo sweet,   'Twill bl

  A solitary soul, I walk at eve   Without the village walls, and in the deep   And sacred hush of woods, where fairies sleep,   Calm Nature soothes my senses, and I live   In realms that only creatures can conceive,   Who with their holy guardian spirits keep   Firm faith, and into loving arms I creep,   And mundane cares no more my spirit grieve.   Cool breezes blow about me, and I hear   The mellow bells of distant churches chime.   I wander on, with never thought of fear,   Secure as in some

  We two sat watching the shadows dance,   (Long years had passed since we were young),   And o'er the days that had fled there hung   A mist of sorrow and sad romance.   From out the gloom of an old stone wall,   The moon drew creatures of wondrous shape,   And none of our lost dreams could escape,   A cruel magic revealed them all.   They bowed and swayed with a mocking grace,   And held our gaze as they flitted by;   Our deep-drawn breaths were our sole reply,   As one by one we beheld each f

  Where, dearest, fare thy feet this summer eve?   Hast found a pasture green in which to tread,   Beside refreshing waters art thou led,   Content beyond my powers to conceive?   Does overflowing cup thy thirst relieve,   With princely feast hast thou thy hunger fed,   Uplifted high is thine anointed head,   Among thy kind dost thou esteem receive?   I pray 'tis so; and evermore shall be,   That year by year thy honors may increase,   No shadow darken thy prosperity,   Nor treach'rous pitfall m

  This is her bed!   Dip the oars lightly,   Guide the craft rightly,   Where her sweet head   Nestles so calmly.   What says her heart,   Fragrant and golden?   In its depths holden,   With maiden art,   Whose image hath she?   Dare I disturb   Fancies so tender,   E'en to surrender?   Better to curb   Self for her peace.   Dream on, my flow'r!   Eyes have caressed thee,   I have confessed me,   In this still hour.   Will she requite me?...

  Upon the mountain's top we pensive stood,   The day was waning and the sun drooped low;   Long shadows fell across the vale below,   And deepened as they reached the distant wood.   The sky seemed in arm's reach: in holy mood,   The trees stretched forth their boughs as to bestow   A vesper blessing, ere we turned to go.   Like feathered mother hovering her brood,   Gray twilight o'er the landscape spread her wings.   I looked into your eyes: in their clear glow,   There dwelt the light that a

  Awake, wild rose, lift up your lovely face   And smile a welcome sweet to one whose days   Were spent of yore in rose-embowered ways,   Where lovingly he marveled at your grace   And found in music lore for you a place,   Telling in tones the world heard with amaze,   How fair you were to his inspiréd gaze.   A grieving people lost him for a space,   And 'round his darkened home there hung a band   Of messengers, half-dreading, day by day,   Lest they should bear sad tidings o'er the land.   B

( Celtic myth: "The ghosts of Fathers, they say, call away the souls of their race, while they behold them lonely in the midst of woe." "Erin's clouds are hung 'round with ghosts." —OSSIAN.)   I go: my father's spirit calls!   From his gray cloud beholding,   He sees how thickly sorrow falls,   My lonely path enfolding.   So near he comes: I see him well:   He beckons, smiling, pleading!   I cannot in this sad world dwell,   When he is drawing, leading.   My heart is sore, he loves me dear,   My

  Seeking a lodge remote from men,   A place for rest and labor,   Where I might inspiration gain,   Dame Nature for close neighbor,   I came on a deserted farm,   By forest deep surrounded;   'Twas mine, by ev'ry subtle charm,   I saw, with joy unbounded.   I wandered through its empty halls,   And 'mong its spreading acres,   Where birds and bees and frisky squirrels   Were undisturbed caretakers.   What sturdy youth and maid demure   Within that garden olden,   Their vows of love and constanc

  Out of the night and the silence,   That held him in pitiless thrall,   Came a gleam and a song of glory,   And his spirit answered the call. January 23, 1908...