Poem – When the Music Began 

The first strike hits the key, 

And the silence is gone, 

As the music begins.
And the notes seem to fly, 

Off the page, 

Swirling, dancing in the air
The emotions swirl.
The warmth and power

That rises from the sounds

Fills the room.
Leaves me in a trance, 

As the music comes

And the sensation rises.
And the music takes me, 

And I follow, 

With no second thought
The music I hear, I play, 

Takes it’s form

As I guide it
I lay in a vast meadow, 

The sun setting in front of me, 

And as night falls, I rest, 
I awake and find myself, 

Soaring through the sky, 

As if weight was a but a myth
And then I fall, 

Deep into the fiery depths, 

As I struggle to stay alive, 
Just as it is about to give in, 

And darkness surrounds me, 

A light.
And the light slowly brightens, 

As the music grows louder

And the emotions grow unbearable
And the light engulfs me, 

And just as the song ends.

I find myself back, where I began
And as the faint echoes

Of the dying music fade away, 

They leave a mark.
And that mark, 

I still feel to this day.

As the music touches me.
As it affects me in a way, 


And the emotions, 

And memories of the day.

The day the music began. 

Zander William Pearson

Poem – Lay his Sword By his Side

Lay his sword by his side — it hath served him too well

 Not to rest near his pillow below; 

To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, 

Its point was still turn’d to a flying foe. 

Fellow-labourers in life, let them slumber in death, 

Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave — 

That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath, 

And himself unsubdued in his grave. 
Yet pause — for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, 

As if breathed from his brave heart’s remains; — 

Faint echo of that which, in Slavery’s ear, 

Once sounded the war-word, “Burst your chains.” 

And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep, 

“Though the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, 

Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep — 

It hath victory’s life in it yet! 
“Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, 

Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, 

Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal’d, 

Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. 

But, if grasp’d by a hand that hath learn’d the proud use 

Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain, 

Then, at Liberty’s summons, like lightning let loose, 

Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!” 

Poem – Lalla Rookh 

“How sweetly,” said the trembling maid,

 Of her own gentle voice afraid,

So long had they in silence stood,

Looking upon that tranquil flood–

“How sweetly does the moon-beam smile

To-night upon yon leafy isle!

Oft in my fancy’s wanderings,

I’ve wish’d that little isle had wings,

And we, within its fairy bow’rs,

Were wafted off to seas unknown,

Where not a pulse should beat but ours,

And we might live, love, die alone!

Far from the cruel and the cold,–

Where the bright eyes of angels only

Should come around us, to behold

A paradise so pure and lonely.

Would this be world enough for thee?”–

Playful she turn’d, that he might see

The passing smile her cheek put on;

But when she mark’d how mournfully

His eyes met hers, that smile was gone;

And, bursting into heart-felt tears,

“Yes, yes,” she cried, “my hourly fears

My dreams have boded all too right–

We part–for ever part–to-night!

I knew, I knew it could not last–

‘Twas bright, ’twas heav’nly, but ’tis past!

Oh! ever thus, from childhood’s hour,

I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay;

I never lov’d a tree or flow’r,

But ’twas the first to fade away.

I never nurs’d a dear gazelle

To glad me with its soft black eye,

But when it came to know me well

And love me, it was sure to die!

Now too–the joy most like divine

Of all I ever dreamt or knew,

To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,–

Oh misery! must I lose that too?

Yet go–on peril’s brink we meet;–

Those frightful rocks–that treach’rous sea–

No, never come again–though sweet,

Though heav’n, it may be death to thee.

Farewell–and blessings on thy way,

Where’er thou goest, beloved stranger!

Better to sit and watch that ray,

And think thee safe, though far away,

Than have thee near me, and in danger!” 

Poem – In the Morning of Life

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, 

And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, 

When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own, 

And the light that surrounds us is all from within; 

Oh ’tis not, believe me, in that happy time 

We can love, as in hours of less transport we may; — 

Of our smiles, of our hopes, ’tis the gay sunny prime, 

But affection is truest when these fade away. 
When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, 

Like a leaf on the stream that will never return, 

When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, 

First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn; 

Then, then in the time when affection holds sway 

With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; 

Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, 

But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true. 
In climes full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers, 

Their sighs have no freshness, their odour no worth; 

‘Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers 

That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth. 

So it is not ‘mid splendour, prosperity, mirth, 

That the depth of Love’s generous spirit appears; 

To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, 

But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears.