Part 6

Or will the city's misery Mould the song in a tragic key-- Making its sweetest, faintest breath Thrill with sorrow, and throb with death?

Maker of music--who can know Where the work of his hand shall go? Maybe its slightest phrase will bring, Comfort to ease the suffering--

Maybe his dreams will have their part Buried deep in the music's heart.... Out of a chain of dreary days, Joy may come as some master plays!

Over a slum his sign hangs out, Over a street where dread meets doubt-- "Violins made," reads the sign. It swings Over a street where sorrow sings.

II. THE PARK BAND

(Side by side and silent--eagerly they stand-- Souls look out of tired eyes, hands are clasped together, Through the thrilling softness of the late spring weather, All a city slum is out to listen to the band.)

Young love and Maytime, hear the joyous strain, Listen to a serenade written long ago! You will recognize the song--you who care must know Fear that blends with happiness, joy that touches pain.

Rabbi with the grizzled beard hear adventure's story! Hear the tale the music tells, thrilling with ro- mance, Hear the clatter of a sword, hear a broken lance Falling from some hero's hand, red with blood- stained glory.

(Tenements on either side, light-flecked in the gloam- ing, Tenements on either side, stark and tall and gray-- Ah, the folk who line your halls wander far away, All a crowded city slum is a-gypsie roaming!)

Woman with the brooding gaze, hear the lilting laughter Of the children that you loved, feel their soft- lipped kisses; Think of all the little joys that a hard world misses- What though bitter loneliness always follows after?

Gangster with the shifty eyes, listen to the sighing Of the hymn tune that you heard at your mother's knee; Listen to the restless ghost of the used-to-be, Listen to a wistful ghost's empty-hearted crying.

(Tenements on either side--menacing they stand-- Light-flecked in the softness of the late spring weather.... But young love and broken life are standing close together, And all a city slum is out to listen to the band.)

III. THE ORGAN MAN

He's very old, his music box is old and rusty, too, And half the notes of it are harsh, and half of them are slow; One wonders if the coat he wears could ever have been new-- And if the tune he plays was quite forgotten long ago.

He finds a sunny place to stand, and lifts his bleary eyes, And smiles a bit--a toothless smile half touched, perhaps, with fear; And though he cannot see them he is looking at the skies, As if he prays, but silently, for hope and faith and cheer.

The foreign women pass him by, their tarnished coins held tight, They toss their heads and will not hear his music's wistful hum-- But through each alley way and street, like moths that seek the light, With eager eyes and laughing lips the little chil- dren come.

He plays his ancient, shaky song, his mouth moves to its sway, He does not know the tune of it is old and out of key; For, through his eyes, a soul stares out that wanders far away, In some fair land of youth and love--some land that used to be.

The little children cluster close, bareheaded, bare of limb-- They hold their ragged frocks and dance, they do not care--or know, That they are like a garden place, a fragrant dream to him, Or that the tune he plays was quite forgotten long ago.

"BE OF GOOD CHEER!"

Temptation came to me today, And oh, I felt that I must stray Down primrose paths, forgetting all.... The city's fevered, siren call Spoke to my soul, its whispered cry Said, "Live, for Youth, too soon, will die!"

So all alone, when work was done, I sought the park. The setting sun Had left a bit of warmth for me-- I found a bench beneath a tree, And sat and thought. My life is hard, Sometimes my heart seems battle-scarred, With longings keen, and bitter fears, And want, and suffering, and tears.

Temptation spoke, and Youth spoke back; The night seemed cold and grimly black, And every light was like a star That cleft the sky--they were so far, So very far away! And I Was lonely, there, beneath the sky....

There used to be a little farm A tiny place, remote from harm; There used to be a mother frail And sweet, with hair as silver-pale As the faint moon. She heard me say The words when first I learned to pray....

Above me in the silent trees, I heard the rustles of the breeze, It sounded like her step, as light As dreams across an endless night. My mother-- Ah, the name so sweet, Brought memories on noiseless feet, And softly in the darkness, there, I breathed my little childhood prayer....

Do prayers have answers? As I prayed A Presence came, and gently laid A Hand upon my arm. I knew That Someone kind, and good, and true Was very near. Upon my soul A peace swept down, and left it whole. I felt a calm steal over me, The same that stilled the troubled sea Where Jesus walked. My fears were laid, Temptation left me unafraid. And as I smiled, there in the park, A voice spoke through the fragrant dark. "Be of good cheer!" the words rang out Like music through the city's shout.

And all the lights that I could see Were stars of home, agleam for me!

FROM MY ROOM

I love you, dear.... Here, alone in my room tonight, it is all that matters, Out through my window, vaguely hushed, the city clatters, Telling ever its tale of woe and mirth, Sighing ever its song of death and birth, Singing ever its potent, mad refrain, Swept with tears and the bitter weight of pain.