He fashioned his own wreath of immortelles,
With matchless skill.
Tones lent themselves with subtle eagerness
To do his will.
Repeat them as his genius did design,
His pow'r devise;
No higher tribute to his name and fame
From us could rise.
POETICAL INTERPRETATIONS
By ELIZABETH FRY PAGE
TO MACDOWELL
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 plaudits stay.
For him is seen the magic circled wand
That to creative genius points the way.
His music's bold, true note Time's test will stand.
His age in art begins with cloudless day.
A.D. 1620
Exiled from home, for sake of faith held dear,
To distant shores the Pilgrim Fathers turned.
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