Abt Vogler
Would
that
the
structure
brave,
the
manifold
music
I
build,
Bidding
my
organ
obey,
calling
its
keys
to
their
work,
Claiming
each
slave
of
the
sound,
at
a
touch,
as
when
Solomon
willed
Armies
of
angels
that
soar,
legions
of
demons
that
lurk,
Man,
brute,
reptile,
fly,—alien
of
end
and
of
aim,
Adverse,
each
from
the
other
heaven-high,
hell-deep
removed,—
Should
rush
into
sight
at
once
as
he
named
the
ineffable
Name,
And
pile
him
a
palace
straight,
to
pleasure
the
princess
he
loved!
Would
it
might
tarry
like
his,
the
beautiful
building
of
mine,
This
which
my
keys
in
a
crowd
pressed
and
importuned
to
raise!
Ah,
one
and
all,
how
they
helped,
would
dispart
now
and
now
combine,
Zealous
to
hasten
the
work,
heighten
their
master
his
praise!
And
one
would
bury
his
brow
with
a
blind
plunge
down
to
hell,
Burrow
awhile
and
build,
broad
on
the
roots
of
things,
Then
up
again
swim
into
sight,
having
based
me
my
palace
well,
Founded
it,
fearless
of
flame,
flat
on
the
nether
springs.
And
another
would
mount
and
march,
like
the
excellent
minion
he
was,
Ay,
another
and
yet
another,
one
crowd
but
with
many
a
crest,
Raising
my
rampired
walls
of
gold
as
transparent
as
glass,
Eager
to
do
and
die,
yield
each
his
place
to
the
rest:
For
higher
still
and
higher
(as
a
runner
tips
with
fire,
When
a
great
illumination
surprises
a
festal
night—
Outlining
round
and
round
Rome's
dome
from
space
to
spire)
Up,
the
pinnacled
glory
reached,
and
the
pride
of
my
soul
was
in
sight.
In
sight?
Not
half!
for
it
seemed,
it
was
certain,
to
match
man's
birth,
Nature
in
turn
conceived,
obeying
an
impulse
as
I;
And
the
emulous
heaven
yearned
down,
made
effort
to
reach
the
earth,
As
the
earth
had
done
her
best,
in
my
passion,
to
scale
the
sky:
Novel
splendours
burst
forth,
grew
familiar
and
dwelt
with
mine,
Not
a
point
nor
peak
but
found
and
fixed
its
wandering
star;
Meteor-moons,
balls
of
blaze:
and
they
did
not
pale
nor
pine,
For
earth
had
attained
to
heaven,
there
was
no
more
near
nor
far.
Nay
more;
for
there
wanted
not
who
walked
in
the
glare
and
glow,
Presences
plain
in
the
place;
or,
fresh
from
the
Protoplast,
Furnished
for
ages
to
come,
when
a
kindlier
wind
should
blow,
Lured
now
to
begin
and
live,
in
a
house
to
their
liking
at
last;
Or
else
the
wonderful
Dead
who
have
passed
through
the
body
and
gone,
But
were
back
once
more
to
breathe
in
an
old
world
worth
their
new:
What
never
had
been,
was
now;
what
was,
as
it
shall
be
anon;
And
what
is,—shall
I
say,
matched
both?
for
I
was
made
perfect
too.
All
through
my
keys
that
gave
their
sounds
to
a
wish
of
my
soul,
All
through
my
soul
that
praised
as
its
wish
flowed
visibly
forth,
All
through
music
and
me!
For
think,
had
I
painted
the
whole,
Why,
there
it
had
stood,
to
see,
nor
the
process
so
wonder-worth:
Had
I
written
the
same,
made
verse—still,
effect
proceeds
from
cause,
Ye
know
why
the
forms
are
fair,
ye
hear
how
the
tale
is
told;
It
is
all
triumphant
art,
but
art
in
obedience
to
laws,
Painter
and
poet
are
proud
in
the
artist-list
enrolled:—
But
here
is
the
finger
of
God,
a
flash
of
the
will
that
can,
Existent
behind
all
laws,
that
made
them
and,
lo,
they
are!
And
I
know
not
if,
save
in
this,
such
gift
be
allowed
to
man,
That
out
of
three
sounds
he
frame,
not
a
fourth
sound,
but
a
star.
Consider
it
well:
each
tone
of
our
scale
in
itself
is
nought;
It
is
everywhere
in
the
world—loud,
soft,
and
all
is
said:
Give
it
to
me
to
use!
I
mix
it
with
two
in
my
thought:
And,
there!
Ye
have
heard
and
seen:
consider
and
bow
the
head!
Well,
it
is
gone
at
last,
the
palace
of
music
I
reared;
Gone!
and
the
good
tears
start,
the
praises
that
come
too
slow;
For
one
is
assured
at
first,
one
scarce
can
say
that
he
feared,
That
he
even
gave
it
a
thought,
the
gone
thing
was
to
go.
Never
to
be
again!
But
many
more
of
the
kind
As
good,
nay,
better,
perchance:
is
this
your
comfort
to
me?
To
me,
who
must
be
saved
because
I
cling
with
my
mind
To
the
same,
same
self,
same
love,
same
God:
ay,
what
was,
shall
be.
Therefore
to
whom
turn
I
but
to
thee,
the
ineffable
Name?
Builder
and
maker,
thou,
of
houses
not
made
with
hands!
What,
have
fear
of
change
from
thee
who
art
ever
the
same?
Doubt
that
thy
power
can
fill
the
heart
that
thy
power
expands?
There
shall
never
be
one
lost
good!
What
was,
shall
live
as
before;
The
evil
is
null,
is
nought,
is
silence
implying
sound;
What
was
good
shall
be
good,
with,
for
evil,
so
much
good
more;
On
the
earth
the
broken
arcs;
in
the
heaven,
a
perfect
round.
All
we
have
willed
or
hoped
or
dreamed
of
good
shall
exist;
Not
its
semblance,
but
itself;
no
beauty,
nor
good,
nor
power
Whose
voice
has
gone
forth,
but
each
survives
for
the
melodist
When
eternity
affirms
the
conception
of
an
hour.
The
high
that
proved
too
high,
the
heroic
for
earth
too
hard,
The
passion
that
left
the
ground
to
lose
itself
in
the
sky,
Are
music
sent
up
to
God
by
the
lover
and
the
bard;
Enough
that
he
heard
it
once:
we
shall
hear
it
by
and
by.
And
what
is
our
failure
here
but
a
triumph's
evidence
For
the
fulness
of
the
days?
Have
we
withered
or
agonized?
Why
else
was
the
pause
prolonged
but
that
singing
might
issue
thence?
Why
rushed
the
discords
in,
but
that
harmony
should
be
prized?
Sorrow
is
hard
to
bear,
and
doubt
is
slow
to
clear,
Each
sufferer
says
his
say,
his
scheme
of
the
weal
and
woe:
But
God
has
a
few
of
us
whom
he
whispers
in
the
ear;
The
rest
may
reason
and
welcome;
'tis
we
musicians
know.
Well,
it
is
earth
with
me;
silence
resumes
her
reign:
I
will
be
patient
and
proud,
and
soberly
acquiesce.
Give
me
the
keys.
I
feel
for
the
common
chord
again,
Sliding
by
semitones
till
I
sink
to
the
minor,—yes,
And
I
blunt
it
into
a
ninth,
and
I
stand
on
alien
ground,
Surveying
awhile
the
heights
I
rolled
from
into
the
deep;
Which,
hark,
I
have
dared
and
done,
for
my
resting-place
is
found,
The
C
Major
of
this
life:
so,
now
I
will
try
to
sleep.
Robert Browning
Robert Browning (born May 7, 1812, London—died Dec. 12, 1889, Venice) major English poet of the Victorian age, noted for his mastery of dramatic monologue and psychological portraiture. His most noted work was The Ring and the Book (1868–69), the story of a Roman murder trial in 12 books. Through all the vicissitudes of critical reputation, however, Browning’s major contribution to the canon of children’s literature, “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” has retained its popular audience. At the time of his death in 1889, he was one of the most popular poets in England.