*
And look like heralds of Eternity."

The principal motive is a weird air, dark as the lurid hour which
precedes a hurricane, in which we catch the fierce exclamations of
exasperation, mingled with a bold defiance, recklessly hurled at the
stormy elements. The prolonged return of a tonic, at the commencement
of each measure, reminds us of the repeated roar of artillery--as if we
caught the sounds from some dread battle waging in the distance. After
the termination of this note, a series of the most unusual chords are
unrolled through measure after measure. We know nothing analogous,
to the striking effect produced by this, in the compositions of the
greatest masters. This passage is suddenly interrupted by a SCENE
CHAMPETRE, a MAZOURKA in the style of an Idyl, full of the perfume of
lavender and sweet marjoram; but which, far from effacing the memory of
the profound sorrow which had before been awakened, only augments, by
its ironical and bitter contrast, our emotions of pain to such a degree,
that we feel almost solaced when the first phrase returns; and, free
from the disturbing contradiction of a naive, simple, and inglorious
happiness, we may again sympathize with the noble and imposing woe of
a high, yet fatal struggle. This improvisation terminates like a dream,
without other conclusion than a convulsive shudder; leaving the soul
under the strangest, the wildest, the most subduing impressions.

The "POLONAISE-FANTAISIE" is to be classed among the works which belong
to the latest period of Chopin's compositions, which are all more or
less marked by a feverish and restless anxiety. No bold and brilliant
pictures are to be found in it; the loud tramp of a cavalry accustomed
to victory is no longer heard; no more resound the heroic chants muffled
by no visions of defeat--the bold tones suited to the audacity of those
who were always victorious. A deep melancholy--ever broken by startled
movements, by sudden alarms, by disturbed rest, by stifled sighs--reigns
throughout. We are surrounded by such scenes and feelings as might arise
among those who had been surprised and encompassed on all sides by an
ambuscade, the vast sweep of whose horizon reveals not a single ground
for hope, and whose despair had giddied the brain, like a draught of
that wine of Cyprus which gives a more instinctive rapidity to all our
gestures, a keener point to all our words, a more subtle flame to
all our emotions, and excites the min