The firelight softly glanced upon Dark braids and sunny curls, Where, in a many-windowed room, Yet dim with late November gloom, Were busy groups of girls. Some sat apart to learn alone; Some studied side by side; Some gathered round a master's chair In reverent silence; others there For readiest answer tried. For one young name a summons came, And Alice quickly rose: The rapid pen aside is laid; The call once heard must be obeyed At once, -- as well she knows. Yet with no joyous step or smile She hastens now away, A teacher's earnest look to meet, Whose hand is filled with music sweet, As hers shall be one day. Beside her at the instrument A place her teacher takes, With patient eye, yet keenest ear; And Alice knows that he will hear The slightest fault she makes. Oh, such a music-task as this Was never hers before! So long and hard, so strange and stern, -- A piece she thinks she cannot learn, Though practised o'er and o'er. It is not beautiful to her, -- She cannot grasp the whole: The master's thought was great and deep, -- A mighty storm, to seize and sweep The wind-harp of the soul. She only plays it note by note, With undeveloped heart; She does not glimpse the splendor through Each chord, so difficult and new, Of veiled and varied art. Unwonted beat and weird repeat She cannot understand; She stumbles on with clouded brow, -- Her cheek is flushed, and aching now The weary little hand. She looked up in her teacher's face; Tears were not far away: "Must I go on till it is done? Oh, let me change it, sir, for one That I can better play. "I cannot make it beautiful, -- It has no tune to sing; And when I am at home, I fear My friends will never care to hear This long and dreary thing." He said, "If you might freely choose, My child, what would you learn?" "Oh, I would have the 'Shower of Pearls,' Or 'Soldiers March,' like other girls, And quick approval earn; "Or sweet Italian melodies, With brilliant run and shake; If you would only give me such, I think that I could please you much, -- Such progress I should make." "Learn this, and it will please me more," Said he, with kindest voice: "And though 'tis now so hard to play, Trust me, you will be glad some day That I have ruled your choice." Tears trembled on the lash, and now His face she could not see; Once more she pleaded, as they fell, "But I shall never play it well: It is too hard for me!" "One thing I grant," he said; "that you May fully, freely tell Your father, who is kind and wise: And, Alice, what he shall advise, Say, will it not be well?" Again she came, and stumblingly The hard sonata played: Another week had passed away, With toilsome practice every day, Yet small the progress made. Her father's writing, bold and clear, Lay on the instrument: "Your letter safely came to me, And now shall answer lovingly To my dear child be sent. "The hardest gained is best retained; You learn not for to-day: I cannot grant your fond request; Your teacher certainly knows best, -- So trust him and obey." The teacher spoke; she listened well, No word of his to miss: "Alice, I want to make of you An artist, noble, high, and true; And no light thing is this. "There's happier, better work in store Than merry tunes to play: You have a mission to fulfill, -- You do not know it; but I will Prepare you as I may. "Will you believe that I know best, And persevere, my child?" She answered, with a little sigh, "Yes: I will trust, and I will try;" And then her teacher smiled. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WAYS OF TIME by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES HIS CONTENT IN THE COUNTRY by ROBERT HERRICK A HYMN TO CONTENTMENT by THOMAS PARNELL HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY COLIN CLOUTS COME HOME AGAIN by EDMUND SPENSER THE LAMP [LAMPE] by HENRY VAUGHAN SEVEN SAD SONNETS: 7. THEY MEET AGAIN by MARY REYNOLDS ALDIS THE BIRDS: THE HOOPOE'S CALL TO HIS WIFE PROCNE, THE NIGHTINGALE by ARISTOPHANES |