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Seven Flats!
Adelaide Claxton
Wood engraving
Illustration for “Seven Flats!” — a poem by Eleanor Louisa Hervey that appears on p. 79 (see below).
London Society, 6 (July 1864): frontispeice. Hathi Trust Digital Library online version of a copy in the University of Iowa Library.
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Seven flats! 'Twould make Apollo weep, — and Paganini stare!
Can human patience master such a strange, perplexing air?
A strain—to eye and heart. Enough to make one quite a fright,
This poring, poring o'er the page.—And Clement comes to-night!
Ah, Clement! If he swept the strings 'twould all be clear as day.
There are some chords—no matter where—his hand knows how to play
Chords that will echo when his foot beats time upon the floor.—
When Clement's voice has left my ear, there's melody no more.
Seven flats!—Was that the study door? A step upon the stair!
The contract will be signed to-night; and Clement will be there.
Be still, my heart!—Ah! well I know, while on the page I look
I'm waiting for a signature—that is not in the book!
What if he comes and finds me thus? And all so out of tune:
These weak hands trembling on the strings like aspen leaves in June?
Waiting for him who should be here; him whom the heavens send—
To make life one long harmony—Con Moto to the end.
Seven flats! Now wand'ring eyes no more go questing, dazing, dreaming!
Alas! sweet patience is a myth; and diligence but seeming.
The round-eyed minims dazzle me like gold rings in the sun.
Till I only see—a little brace that clasps two staves in one!
Is love, then, nought but trifling?
And is this to be a wife?
To idle precious hours; and drop the music out of life?
To wait my husband's coming,-mute; when I should take my part,
And echo every master chord that beats about his heart?
Seven flats!—Though hard, I’ll master it! My Clement shall not say
His wishes are as straws to me; and duty but a play.
He tells me I am perfect. — Nay, then, perfect let me be,
If but perfect in the practice of this horrid key of C!
A week ago he brought the book: called me his “darling Grace!’
And said I was ‘a Muse.’—I was but musing on his face;
Thinking how low-voiced womanhood to manhood should be set
Like ‘music unto noble words’ where soul and heart are met.
Seven flats! Yet, courage, little wife! To-night he will be here!
And to-morrow!—Ah, to-morrow he will be far more dear!
I shall loan upon his bosom—in that glad, glad morning's gleam,
And he playing on my heartstrings like the music of a dream!
Last modified 4 June 2020