Here begins the epilogue with the original solemn hymn.  Only it is now entwined with shreds and memories of romance, flowing tranquilly on through gusts of passion.  And there is the dull sob with the sudden gleam of joyous light.  But the hymn returns like a sombre solace of oblivion,—­though there is a final strain of the wistful romance, ending in sad harmony.

II.—­Allegro molto. The Scherzo (as we may venture to call it) begins with a breath of new harmony, or is it a blended magic of rhythm, tune and chord?  Far more than merely bizarre, it calls up a vision of Celtic warriors, the wild, free spirit of Northern races.  The rushing jig or reel is halted

[Music:  Allegro molto (Strings with kettle-drum)]

anon by longer notes in a drop of the tune and instantly returns to the quicker run.  Below plays a kind of drum-roll of rumbling strings.  Other revelling pranks appear, of skipping wood, rushing harp and dancing strings, till at last sounds a clearer tune, a restrained war-march with touch of terror in the soft subdued chords, suddenly growing to expressive

[Music:  (Violas and clarinets) (Wood, basses and strings)]

volume as it sounds all about, in treble and in bass.

At last the war-song rings in full triumphant blast, where trumpets and the shrill fife lead, and the lower brass, with cymbals and drums (big and little) mark the march.  Then to the returning pranks the tune roars in low basses and reeds, and at last a big conclusive phrase descends from the height to meet the rising figure of the basses.

Now the reel dances in furious tumult (instead of the first whisper) and dies down through the slower cadence.

An entirely new scene is here.  To a blended tinkle of harp, reeds and high strings sounds a delicate air, quick and light, yet with a tinge of plaint that may be a part of all Celtic song.  It were rude to spoil

[Music:  (Woodwind, with a triplet pulse of harp and rhythmic strings)]

its fine fragrance with some rough title of meaning; nor do we feel a strong sense of romance, rather a whim of Northern fantasy.

Over a single note of bass sings a new strain of elegy, taken up by other voices, varying with the

[Music:  (Clarinets)]

tinkling air.  Suddenly in rushes the first reel, softly as at first; but over it sings still the new sad tune, then yields to the wild whims and pranks that lead to the war-song in resonant chorus, joined at the height by the reel below.  They change places, the tune ringing in the bass.  In the martial tumult the tinkling air is likewise infected with saucy vigor, but suddenly retires abashed into its shell of fairy sound, and over it sings the elegy in various choirs.  The tinkling melody falls suddenly into a new flow of moving song, rising to pure lyric fervor.  The soft air has somehow the main say, has reached the high point, has touched