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diff --git a/26715.txt b/26715.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..33bdb01 --- /dev/null +++ b/26715.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5809 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Victorian Songs, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Victorian Songs + Lyrics of the Affections and Nature + +Author: Various + +Commentator: Edmund Gosse + +Editor: Edmund H. Garrett + +Illustrator: Edmund H. Garrett + +Release Date: September 28, 2008 [EBook #26715] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VICTORIAN SONGS *** + + + + +Produced by Louise Hope, David Starner and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. (This +file includes images generously made available by The +Internet Archive.) + + + + + +[This e-text comes in two forms: Latin-1 and ASCII-7. Download the one +that works best on your text reader. + +--In the Latin-1 version, names like "Aide" and words like "naivete" +have accents, and "ae" is a single letter. If any part of this paragraph +displays as garbage, try changing your text reader's "character set" or +"file encoding". If that doesn't work, proceed to: + +--The ASCII-7 or rock-bottom version. All essential text will still be +there; it just won't be as pretty. + +Spacing of contractions such as _I 've_ follows the original.] + + + + +Victorian Songs + + "'Let some one sing to us, lightlier move + The minutes fledged with music'." + + TENNYSON + + + + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + + + + Victorian Songs + + Lyrics of the Affections + and Nature + + [Illustration] + + + Collected and Illustrated + by Edmund H Garrett + with an Introduction by + Edmund Gosse + + [Decoration] + + Little Brown and Company + Boston 1895 + + + + + _Copyright, 1895._ + BY EDMUND H. GARRETT. + + + University Press: + John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. + + + + +[Transcriber's Note: + +Some printings of the book have a two-page Editor's Note before the +Contents, acknowledging the "publishers and authors who have given +permission for the use of many of the songs included in this volume". +It has been omitted from this e-text.] + + + + + [Illustration] + + CONTENTS + + Where are the songs I used to know? + + Christina Rossetti. + + + AIDE, HAMILTON (1830). Page + Remember or Forget 3 + Oh, Let Me Dream 6 + Love, the Pilgrim 7 + + ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM (1824-1889). + Lovely Mary Donnelly 9 + Song 13 + Serenade 14 + Across the Sea 16 + + ARNOLD, SIR EDWIN (1832). + Serenade 18 + A Love Song of Henri Quatre 20 + + ASHE, THOMAS (1836-1889). + No and Yes 22 + At Altenahr 23 + Marit 24 + + AUSTIN, ALFRED (1835). + A Night in June 26 + + BEDDOES, THOMAS LOVELL (1803-1849). + Dream-Pedlary 30 + Song from the Ship 33 + Song 34 + Song 35 + Song, by Two Voices 36 + Song 38 + + BENNETT, WILLIAM COX (1820). + Cradle Song 39 + My Roses blossom the Whole Year Round 41 + Cradle Song 42 + + BOURDILLON, F. W. (1852). + Love's Meinie 43 + The Night has a Thousand Eyes 44 + A Lost Voice 45 + + BUCHANAN, ROBERT (1841). + Serenade 46 + Song 48 + + COLLINS, MORTIMER (1827-1876). + To F. C. 49 + A Game of Chess 50 + Multum in Parvo 52 + Violets at Home 53 + My Thrush 54 + + CRAIK, DINAH MARIA MULOCK (1826-1887). + Too Late 56 + A Silly Song 58 + + DARLEY, GEORGE (1795-1846). + May Day 60 + I 've been Roaming 62 + Sylvia's Song 63 + Serenade 64 + + DE TABLEY, LORD (1835). + A Winter Sketch 66 + The Second Madrigal 69 + + DE VERE, AUBREY (1788-1846). + Song 70 + Song 72 + Song 74 + + DICKENS, CHARLES (1812-1870). + The Ivy Green 75 + + DOBSON, AUSTIN (1840). + The Ladies of St. James's 77 + The Milkmaid 81 + + DOMETT, ALFRED (1811-1887). + A Glee for Winter 84 + A Kiss 86 + + DUFFERIN, LADY (1807-1867). + Song 88 + Lament of the Irish Emigrant 90 + + FIELD, MICHAEL. + Winds To-day are Large and Free 94 + Let us Wreathe the Mighty Cup 96 + Where Winds abound 97 + + GALE, NORMAN (1862). + A Song 98 + Song 99 + + GOSSE, EDMUND (1849). + Song for the Lute 101 + + HOOD, THOMAS (1798-1845). + Ballad 102 + Song 104 + I Remember, I Remember 106 + Ballad 108 + Song 110 + + HOUGHTON, LORD (RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES) (1809-1885). + The Brookside 111 + The Venetian Serenade 113 + From Love and Nature 115 + + INGELOW, JEAN (1830). + The Long White Seam 116 + Love 118 + Sweet is Childhood 120 + + KINGSLEY, CHARLES (1819-1875). + Airly Beacon 121 + The Sands of Dee 122 + Three Fishers went Sailing 124 + A Farewell 126 + + LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE (1775-1864). + Rose Aylmer 127 + Rubies 128 + The Fault is not Mine 129 + Under the Lindens 130 + Sixteen 131 + Ianthe 132 + One Lovely Name 133 + Forsaken 133 + + LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK (1821-1895). + A Garden Lyric 134 + The Cuckoo 137 + Gertrude's Necklace 139 + + LOVER, SAMUEL (1797-1868). + The Angel's Whisper 141 + What will you do, Love? 143 + + MACKAY, CHARLES (1814-1889). + I Love my Love 145 + O Ye Tears! 147 + + MAHONEY, FRANCIS (1805-1866). + The Bells of Shandon 149 + + MASSEY, GERALD (1828). + Song 153 + + O'SHAUGHNESSY, ARTHUR (1844-1881). + A Love Symphony 156 + I made Another Garden 158 + + PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE (1825-1864). + The Lost Chord 160 + Sent to Heaven 162 + + PROCTER, B. W. (BARRY CORNWALL) (1787-1874). + The Poet's Song to his Wife 165 + A Petition to Time 167 + A Bacchanalian Song 168 + She was not Fair nor Full of Grace 170 + The Sea-King 172 + A Serenade 174 + King Death 176 + Sit Down, Sad Soul 178 + A Drinking Song 180 + Peace! What do Tears Avail? 182 + The Sea 184 + + ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA G. (1830-1895). + Song 186 + Song 188 + Song 189 + Three Seasons 190 + + ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL (1828-1882). + A Little While 191 + Sudden Light 193 + Three Shadows 194 + + SCOTT, WILLIAM BELL (1812-1890). + Parting and Meeting Again 196 + + SKIPSEY, JOSEPH (1832). + A Merry Bee 198 + The Songstress 199 + The Violet and the Rose 200 + + STERRY, J. ASHBY. + Regrets 201 + Daisy's Dimples 203 + A Lover's Lullaby 204 + + SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES (1837). + A Match 205 + Rondel 208 + Song 209 + + TENNYSON, ALFRED (1809-1892). + The Bugle Song 210 + Break, Break, Break 212 + Tears, Idle Tears 213 + Sweet and Low 215 + Turn, Fortune, Turn thy Wheel 216 + Vivien's Song 217 + + THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE (1811-1863). + At the Church Gate 218 + The Mahogany Tree 220 + + THORNBURY, GEORGE WALTER (1828-1876). + Dayrise and Sunset 223 + The Three Troopers 225 + The Cuckoo 228 + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Illustration] + + AN INDEX TO FIRST LINES + + Listen--Songs thou 'lt hear + Through the wide world ringing. + + Barry Cornwall. + + + Page + + A baby was sleeping + _Samuel Lover_ 141 + "A cup for hope!" she said + _Christina G. Rossetti_ 190 + A golden bee a-cometh + _Joseph Skipsey_ 198 + A little shadow makes the sunrise sad + _Mortimer Collins_ 52 + A little while a little love + _Dante Gabriel Rossetti_ 191 + A thousand voices fill my ears + _F. W. Bourdillon_ 45 + Across the grass I see her pass + _Austin Dobson_ 81 + Ah, what avails the sceptered race! + _Walter Savage Landor_ 127 + Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon + _Charles Kingsley_ 121 + All glorious as the Rainbow's birth + _Gerald Massey_ 153 + All through the sultry hours of June + _Mortimer Collins_ 54 + Along the garden ways just now + _Arthur O'Shaughnessy_ 156 + Although I enter not + _William Makepeace Thackeray_ 218 + As Gertrude skipt from babe to girl + _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 139 + As I came round the harbor buoy + _Jean Ingelow_ 116 + Awake!--The starry midnight Hour + _B. W. Procter_ (_Barry Cornwall_) 174 + Awake thee, my Lady-love! + _George Darley_ 64 + Back flies my soul to other years + _Joseph Skipsey_ 199 + Break, break, break + _Alfred Tennyson_ 212 + + Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet + _Thomas Ashe_ 23 + Christmas is here + _William Makepeace Thackeray_ 220 + Come, rosy Day! + _Sir Edwin Arnold_ 20 + Come sing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King + _B. W. Procter_ (_Barry Cornwall_) 172 + Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas + _Dinah Maria Mulock Craik_ 56 + + Drink, and fill the night with mirth! + _B. W. Procter_ (_Barry Cornwall_) 180 + + Every day a Pilgrim, blindfold + _Hamilton Aide_ 7 + + Fast falls the snow, O lady mine + _Mortimer Collins_ 49 + First the fine, faint, dreamy motion + _Norman Gale_ 98 + + Hence, rude Winter! crabbed old fellow + _Alfred Domett_ 84 + How many Summers, love + _B. W. Procter_ (_Barry Cornwall_) 165 + How many times do I love thee, dear? + _Thomas Lovell Beddoes_ 38 + + I bring a garland for your head + _Edmund Gosse_ 101 + I had a Message to send her + _Adelaide Anne Procter_ 162 + I have been here before + _Dante Gabriel Rossetti_ 193 + I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover + _Jean Ingelow_ 118 + I looked and saw your eyes + _Dante Gabriel Rossetti_ 194 + I made another garden, yea + _Arthur O'Shaughnessy_ 158 + I remember, I remember + _Thomas Hood_ 106 + I sat beside the streamlet + _Hamilton Aide_ 3 + I wandered by the brook-side + _Lord Houghton_ 111 + I walked in the lonesome evening + _William Allingham_ 16 + If I could choose my paradise + _Thomas Ashe_ 22 + If love were what the rose is + _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 205 + If there were dreams to sell + _Thomas Lovell Beddoes_ 30 + I 'm sitting on the stile, Mary + _Lady Dufferin_ 90 + In Clementina's artless mien + _Walter Savage Landor_ 131 + In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours + _Alfred Tennyson_ 217 + Into the Devil tavern + _George Walter Thornbury_ 225 + It was not in the winter + _Thomas Hood_ 102 + I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! + _George Darley_ 62 + + King Death was a rare old fellow! + _B. W. Procter_ (_Barry Cornwall_) 176 + Kissing her hair I sat against her feet. + _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 208 + + Lady! in this night of June + _Alfred Austin_ 26 + Last time I parted from my Dear + _William Bell Scott_ 196 + Let us wreathe the mighty cup + _Michael Field_ 96 + Little dimples so sweet and soft + _J. Ashby Sterry_ 203 + Lullaby! O lullaby! + _William Cox Bennett_ 42 + Lute! breathe thy lowest in my Lady's ear + _Sir Edwin Arnold_ 18 + + Mirror your sweet eyes in mine, love + _J. Ashby Sterry_ 204 + Mother, I can not mind my wheel + _Walter Savage Landor_ 133 + My fairest child, I have no song to give you + _Charles Kingsley_ 126 + My goblet's golden lips are dry + _Thomas Lovell Beddoes_ 34 + My love, on a fair May morning + _Thomas Ashe_ 24 + My roses blossom the whole year round + _William Cox Bennett_ 41 + + O for the look of those pure gray eyes + _J. Ashby Sterry_ 201 + O happy buds of violet! + _Mortimer Collins_ 53 + "O Heart, my heart!" she said, and heard + _Dinah Maria Mulock Craik_ 58 + O lady, leave thy silken thread + _Thomas Hood_ 104 + O lips that mine have grown into + _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 209 + O Love is like the roses + _Robert Buchanan_ 48 + O May, thou art a merry time + _George Darley_ 60 + O roses for the flush of youth + _Christina G. Rossetti_ 188 + O spirit of the Summertime! + _William Allingham_ 13 + O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow + _Charles Mackay_ 147 + Often I have heard it said + _Walter Savage Landor_ 128 + Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green + _Charles Dickens_ 75 + Oh, hearing sleep, and sleeping hear + _William Allingham_ 14 + Oh! let me dream of happy days gone by + _Hamilton Aide_ 6 + Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best! + _William Allingham_ 9 + "Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home" + _Charles Kingsley_ 122 + One lovely name adorns my song + _Walter Savage Landor_ 133 + + Peace! what can tears avail? + _B. W. Procter_ (_Barry Cornwall_) 182 + + Seated one day at the Organ + _Adelaide Anne Procter_ 160 + Seek not the tree of silkiest bark + _Aubrey de Vere_ 72 + She was not fair, nor full of grace + _B. W. Procter_ (_Barry Cornwall_) 170 + She 's up and gone, the graceless Girl + _Thomas Hood_ 108 + Sing!--Who sings + _B. W. Procter_ (_Barry Cornwall_) 168 + Sit down, sad soul, and count + _B. W. Procter_ (_Barry Cornwall_) 178 + Sleep sweet, beloved one, sleep sweet! + _Robert Buchanan_ 46 + Sleep! the bird is in its nest + _William Cox Bennett_ 39 + Softly, O midnight Hours! + _Audrey de Vere_ 70 + Strew not earth with empty stars + _Thomas Lovell Beddoes_ 35 + Sweet and low, sweet and low + _Alfred Tennyson_ 215 + Sweet is childhood--childhood 's over + _Jean Ingelow_ 120 + Sweet mouth! O let me take + _Alfred Domett_ 86 + + Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean + _Alfred Tennyson_ 213 + Terrace and lawn are white with frost + _Mortimer Collins_ 50 + Thank Heaven, Ianthe, once again + _Walter Savage Landor_ 132 + The fault is not mine if I love you too much + _Walter Savage Landor_ 129 + The ladies of St. James's + _Austin Dobson_ 77 + The night has a thousand eyes + _F. W. Bourdillon_ 44 + The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! + _B. W. Procter_ (_Barry Cornwall_) 184 + The splendour falls on castle walls + _Alfred Tennyson_ 210 + The stars are with the voyager + _Thomas Hood_ 110 + The streams that wind amid the hills + _George Darley_ 63 + The Sun came through the frosty mist + _Lord Houghton_ 115 + The Violet invited my kiss + _Joseph Skipsey_ 200 + There is no summer ere the swallows come. + _F. W. Bourdillon_ 43 + Three fishers went sailing away to the West + _Charles Kingsley_ 124 + To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er + _Thomas Lovell Beddoes_ 33 + Touch us gently, Time! + _B. W. Procter_ (_Barry Cornwall_) 167 + Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud! + _Alfred Tennyson_ 216 + Two doves upon the selfsame branch + _Christina G. Rossetti_ 189 + + Under the lindens lately sat + _Walter Savage Landor_ 130 + + Wait but a little while + _Norman Gale_ 99 + We have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery croft + _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 134 + We heard it calling, clear and low + _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 137 + What is the meaning of the song + _Charles Mackay_ 145 + "What will you do, love, when I am going" + _Samuel Lover_ 143 + When a warm and scented steam + _George Walter Thornbury_ 228 + When along the light ripple the far serenade + _Lord Houghton_ 113 + When another's voice thou hearest + _Lady Dufferin_ 88 + When I am dead, my dearest + _Christina G. Rossetti_ 186 + When I was young, I said to Sorrow + _Aubrey de Vere_ 74 + When Spring casts all her swallows forth + _George Walter Thornbury_ 223 + When the snow begins to feather + _Lord de Tabley_ 66 + Where winds abound + _Michael Field_ 97 + Who is the baby, that doth lie + _Thomas Lovell Beddoes_ 36 + Winds to-day are large and free + _Michael Field_ 94 + With deep affection + _Francis Mahoney_ 149 + Woo thy lass while May is here + _Lord de Tabley_ 69 + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Illustration] + + LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + Their songs wake singing echoes in my land. + + Christina Rossetti. + + + Sweet and low, sweet and low _Frontispiece_ + "Oh! let me dream of happy days gone by" 6 + Across the Sea 16 + "My love on a fair May morning" 24 + Song in the Garden 38 + The night has a thousand eyes 44 + A Game of Chess 50 + "I 've been roaming, I 've been roaming" 62 + "A maid I know,--and March winds blow" 82 + "That bright May morning long ago" 90 + "I remember, I remember" 106 + I wandered by the brook-side 112 + "Three fishers went sailing away to the West" 124 + Ianthe 132 + Gertrude's Necklace 140 + "She turned back at the last to wait" 158 + King Death 176 + "I looked and saw your eyes" 194 + Break, Break, Break 212 + "When Spring casts all her swallows forth" 224 + + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Illustration] + + + INTRODUCTION + + The writer of prose, by intelligence taught, + Says the thing that will please, in the way that he ought. + + Frederick Locker-Lampson. + + +_No species of poetry is more ancient than the lyrical, and yet none +shows so little sign of having outlived the requirements of human +passion. The world may grow tired of epics and of tragedies, but each +generation, as it sees the hawthorns blossom and the freshness of +girlhood expand, is seized with a pang which nothing but the spasm of +verse will relieve. Each youth imagines that spring-tide and love are +wonders which he is the first of human beings to appreciate, and he +burns to alleviate his emotion in rhyme. Historians exaggerate, perhaps, +the function of music in awakening and guiding the exercise of lyrical +poetry. The lyric exists, they tell us, as an accompaniment to the lyre; +and without the mechanical harmony the spoken song is an artifice. Quite +as plausibly might it be avowed that music was but added to verse to +concentrate and emphasize its rapture, to add poignancy and volume to +its expression. But the truth is that these two arts, though sometimes +happily allied, are, and always have been, independent. When verse has +been innocent enough to lean on music, we may be likely to find that +music also has been of the simplest order, and that the pair of them, +like two delicious children, have tottered and swayed together down the +flowery meadows of experience. When either poetry or music is adult, the +presence of each is a distraction to the other, and each prefers, in the +elaborate ages, to stand alone, since the mystery of the one confounds +the complexity of the other. Most poets hate music; few musicians +comprehend the nature of poetry; and the combination of these arts has +probably, in all ages, been contrived, not for the satisfaction of +artists, but for the convenience of their public._ + +_This divorce between poetry and music has been more frankly accepted in +the present century than ever before, and is nowadays scarcely opposed +in serious criticism. If music were a necessary ornament of lyrical +verse, the latter would nowadays scarcely exist; but we hear less and +less of the poets devotion (save in a purely conventional sense) to the +lute and the pipe. What we call the Victorian lyric is absolutely +independent of any such aid. It may be that certain songs of Tennyson +and Christina Rossetti have been with great popularity "set," as it is +called, "to music." So far as the latter is in itself successful, it +stultifies the former; and we admit at last that the idea of one art +aiding another in this combination is absolutely fictitious. The +beauty--even the beauty of sound--conveyed by the ear in such lyrics as +"Break, break, break," or "When I am dead, my dearest," is obscured, is +exchanged for another and a rival species of beauty, by the most +exquisite musical setting that a composer can invent._ + +_The age which has been the first to accept this condition, then, should +be rich in frankly lyrical poetry; and this we find to be the case with +the Victorian period. At no time has a greater mass of this species of +verse been produced, not even in the combined Elizabethan and Jacobean +age. But when we come to consider the quality of this later harvest of +song, we observe in it a far less homogeneous character. We can take a +piece of verse, and decide at sight that it must be Elizabethan, or of +the age of the Pleiade in France, or of a particular period in Italy. +Even an ode of our own eighteenth century is hardly to be confounded +with a fragment from any other school. The great Georgian age introduced +a wide variety into English poetry; and yet we have but to examine the +selected jewels strung into so exquisite a carcanet by Mr. Palgrave in +his "Golden Treasury" to notice with surprise how close a family +likeness exists between the contributions of Shelley, Wordsworth, Keats, +and Byron. The distinctions of style, of course, are very great; but the +general character of the diction, the imagery, even of the rhythm, is +more or less identical. The stamp of the same age is upon them,--they +are hall-marked 1820._ + +_It is perhaps too early to decide that this will never be the case with +the Victorian lyrics. While we live in an age we see the distinction of +its parts, rather than their co-relation. It is said that the Japanese +Government once sent over a Commission to report upon the art of Europe; +and that, having visited the exhibitions of London, Paris, Florence, and +Berlin, the Commissioners confessed that the works of the European +painters all looked so exactly alike that it was difficult to +distinguish one from another. The Japanese eye, trained in absolutely +opposed conventions, could not tell the difference between a Watts and a +Fortuny, a Theodore Rousseau and a Henry Moore. So it is quite possible, +it is even probable, that future critics may see a close similarity +where we see nothing but divergence between the various productions of +the Victorian age. Yet we can judge but what we discern; and certainly +to the critical eye to-day it is the absence of a central tendency, the +chaotic cultivation of all contrivable varieties of style, which most +strikingly seems to distinguish the times we live in._ + +_We use the word "Victorian" in literature to distinguish what was +written after the decline of that age of which Walter Scott, Coleridge, +and Wordsworth were the survivors. It is well to recollect, however, +that Tennyson, who is the Victorian writer_ par excellence, _had +published the most individual and characteristic of his lyrics long +before the Queen ascended the throne, and that Elizabeth Barrett, Henry +Taylor, William Barnes, and others were by this date of mature age. It +is difficult to remind ourselves, who have lived in the radiance of that +august figure, that some of the most beautiful of Tennyson's lyrics, +such as "Mariana" and "The Dying Swan" are now separated from us by as +long a period of years as divided them from Dr. Johnson and the author +of "Night Thoughts." The reflection is of value only as warning us of +the extraordinary length of the epoch we still call "Victorian." It +covers, not a mere generation, but much more than half a century. During +this length of time a complete revolution in literary taste might have +been expected to take place. This has not occurred, and the cause may +very well be the extreme license permitted to the poets to adopt +whatever style they pleased. Where all the doors stand wide open, there +is no object in escaping; where there is but one door, and that one +barred, it is human nature to fret for some violent means of evasion. +How divine have been the methods of the Victorian lyrists may easily be +exemplified_:-- + + _"Quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife + To heart of neither wife nor maid, + Lead we not here a jolly life + Betwixt the shine and shade?_ + + _"Quoth heart of neither maid nor wife + To tongue of neither wife nor maid, + Thou wagg'st, but I am worn with strife, + And feel like flowers that fade."_ + +_That is a masterpiece, but so is this:--_ + + _"Nay, but you who do not love her, + Is she not pure gold, my mistress? + Holds earth aught--speak truth--above her? + Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, + And this last fairest tress of all, + --So fair, see, ere I let it fall?_ + + _"Because, you spend your lives in praisings, + To praise, you search the wide world over: + Then why not witness, calmly gazing, + If earth holds aught--speak truth--above her? + Above this tress, and this I touch, + But cannot praise, I love so much!"_ + +_And so is this:--_ + + _"Under the wide and starry sky, + Dig the grave and let me lie. + Glad did I live and gladly die, + And I laid me down with a will._ + + _"This be the verse yon grave for me: + Here he lies where he longed to be; + Home is the sailor, home from sea, + And the hunter home from the hill."_ + +_But who would believe that the writers of these were contemporaries?_ + +_If we examine more closely the forms which lyric poetry has taken since +1830, we shall find that certain influences at work in the minds of our +leading writers have led to the widest divergence in the character of +lyrical verse. It will be well, perhaps, to consider in turn the leading +classes of that work. It was not to be expected that in an age of such +complexity and self-consciousness as ours, the pure song, the simple +trill of bird-like melody, should often or prominently be heard. As +civilization spreads, it ceases to be possible, or at least it becomes +less and less usual, that simple emotion should express itself with +absolute naivete. Perhaps Burns was the latest poet in these islands +whose passion warbled forth in perfectly artless strains; and he had the +advantage of using a dialect still unsubdued and unvulgarized. +Artlessness nowadays must be the result of the most exquisitely finished +art; if not, it is apt to be insipid, if not positively squalid and +fusty. The obvious uses of simple words have been exhausted; we cannot, +save by infinite pains and the exercise of a happy genius, recover the +old spontaneous air, the effect of an inevitable arrangement of the only +possible words._ + +_This beautiful direct simplicity, however, was not infrequently secured +by Tennyson, and scarcely less often by Christina Rossetti, both of whom +have left behind them jets of pure emotional melody which compare to +advantage with the most perfect specimens of Greek and Elizabethan song. +Tennyson did not very often essay this class of writing, but when he +did, he rarely failed; his songs combine, with extreme naturalness and +something of a familiar sweetness, a felicity of workmanship hardly to +be excelled. In her best songs, Miss Rossetti is scarcely, if at all, +his inferior; but her judgment was far less sure, and she was more ready +to look with complacency on her failures. The songs of Mr. Aubrey de +Vere are not well enough known; they are sometimes singularly charming. +Other poets have once or twice succeeded in catching this clear natural +treble,--the living linnet once captured in the elm, as Tusitala puts +it; but this has not been a gift largely enjoyed by our Victorian +poets._ + +_The richer and more elaborate forms of lyric, on the contrary, have +exactly suited this curious and learned age of ours. The species of +verse which, originally Italian or French, have now so abundantly and so +admirably been practised in England that we can no longer think of them +as exotic, having found so many exponents in the Victorian period that +they are pre-eminently characteristic of it. "Scorn not the Sonnet," +said Wordsworth to his contemporaries; but the lesson has not been +needed in the second half of the century. The sonnet is the most solid +and unsingable of the sections of lyrical poetry; it is difficult to +think of it as chanted to a musical accompaniment. It is used with great +distinction by writers to whom skill in the lighter divisions of poetry +has been denied, and there are poets, such as Bowles and Charles +Tennyson-Turner, who live by their sonnets alone. The practice of the +sonnet has been so extended that all sense of monotony has been lost. A +sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning differs from one by D. G. Rossetti +or by Matthew Arnold to such excess as to make it difficult for us to +realize that the form in each case is absolutely identical._ + +_With the sonnet might be mentioned the lighter forms of elaborate +exotic verse; but to these a word shall be given later on. More closely +allied to the sonnet are those rich and somewhat fantastic +stanza-measures in which Rossetti delighted. Those in which Keats and +the Italians have each their part have been greatly used by the +Victorian poets. They lend themselves to a melancholy magnificence, to +pomp of movement and gorgeousness of color; the very sight of them gives +the page the look of an ancient blazoned window. Poems of this class are +"The Stream's Secret" and the choruses in "Love is enough." They satisfy +the appetite of our time for subtle and vague analysis of emotion, for +what appeals to the spirit through the senses; but here, again, in +different hands, the "thing," the metrical instrument, takes wholly +diverse characters, and we seek in vain for a formula that can include +Robert Browning and Gabriel Rossetti, William Barnes and Arthur Hugh +Clough._ + +_From this highly elaborated and extended species of lyric the +transition is easy to the Ode. In the Victorian age, the ode, in its +full Pindaric sense, has not been very frequently used. We have +specimens by Mr. Swinburne in which the Dorian laws are closely adhered +to. But the ode, in a more or less irregular form, whether paean or +threnody, has been the instrument of several of our leading lyrists. The +genius of Mr. Swinburne, even to a greater degree than that of Shelley, +is essentially dithyrambic, and is never happier than when it spreads +its wings as wide as those of the wild swan, and soars upon the very +breast of tempest. In these flights Mr. Swinburne attains to a volume of +sonorous melody such as no other poet, perhaps, of the world has +reached, and we may say to him, as he has shouted to the Mater +Triumphalis:--_ + + _"Darkness to daylight shall lift up thy paean, + Hill to hill thunder, vale cry back to vale, + With wind-notes as of eagles AEschylean, + And Sappho singing in the nightingale."_ + +_Nothing could mark more picturesquely the wide diversity permitted in +Victorian lyric than to turn from the sonorous and tumultuous odes of +Mr. Swinburne to those of Mr. Patmore, in which stateliness of +contemplation and a peculiar austerity of tenderness find their +expression in odes of iambic cadence, the melody of which depends, not +in their headlong torrent of sound, but in the cunning variation of +catalectic pause. A similar form has been adopted by Lord De Tabley for +many of his gorgeous studies of antique myth, and by Tennyson for his +"Death of the Duke of Wellington." It is an error to call these iambic +odes "irregular," although they do not follow the classic rules with +strophe, antistrophe, and epode. The enchanting "I have led her +home," in "Maud," is an example of this kind of lyric at its highest +point of perfection._ + +_A branch of lyrical poetry which has been very widely cultivated in the +Victorian age is the philosophical, or gnomic, in which a serious chain +of thought, often illustrated by complex and various imagery, is held in +a casket of melodious verse, elaborately rhymed. Matthew Arnold was a +master of this kind of poetry, which takes its form, through Wordsworth, +from the solemn and so-called "metaphysical" writers of the seventeenth +century. We class this interesting and abundant section of verse with +the lyrical, because we know not by what other name to describe it; yet +it has obviously as little as possible of the singing ecstasy about it. +It neither pours its heart out in a rapture, nor wails forth its +despair. It has as little of the nightingale's rich melancholy as of the +lark's delirium. It hardly sings, but, with infinite decorum and +sobriety, speaks its melodious message to mankind. This sort of +philosophical poetry is really critical; its function is to analyze and +describe; and it approaches, save for the enchantment of its form, +nearer to prose than do the other sections of the art. It is, however, +just this species of poetry which has particularly appealed to the age +in which we live; and how naturally it does so may be seen in the +welcome extended to the polished and serene compositions of Mr. William +Watson._ + +_Almost a creation, or at least a complete conquest, of the Victorian +age is the humorous lyric in its more delicate developments. If the past +can point to Prior and to Praed, we can boast, in their various +departments, of Calverly, of Locker-Lampson, of Mr. Andrew Lang, of +Mr. W. S. Gilbert. The comic muse, indeed, has marvellously extended her +blandishments during the last two generations, and has discovered +methods of trivial elegance which were quite unknown to our forefathers. +Here must certainly be said a word in favor of those French forms of +verse, all essentially lyrical, such as the ballad, the rondel, the +triolet, which have been used so abundantly as to become quite a feature +in our lighter literature. These are not, or are but rarely, fitted to +bear the burden of high emotion; but their precision, and the deftness +which their use demands fit them exceedingly well for the more +distinguished kind of persiflage. No one has kept these delicate +butterflies in flight with the agile movement of his fan so admirably as +Mr. Austin Dobson, that neatest of magicians._ + +_Those who write hastily of Victorian lyrical poetry are apt to find +fault with its lack of spontaneity. It is true that we cannot pretend to +discover on a greensward so often crossed and re-crossed as the poetic +language of England many morning dewdrops still glistening on the +grasses. We have to pay the penalty of our experience in a certain lack +of innocence. The artless graces of a child seem mincing affectations in +a grown-up woman. But the poetry of this age has amply made up for any +lack of innocence by its sumptuous fulness, its variety, its magnificent +accomplishment, its felicitous response to a multitude of moods and +apprehensions. It has struck out no new field for itself; it still +remains where the romantic revolution of 1798 placed it; its aims are +not other than were those of Coleridge and of Keats. But within that +defined sphere it has developed a surprising activity. It has occupied +the attention and become the facile instrument of men of the greatest +genius, writers of whom any age and any language might be proud. It has +been tender and fiery, severe and voluminous, gorgeous and marmoreal, in +turns. It has translated into words feelings so subtle, so transitory, +moods so fragile and intangible, that the rough hand of prose would but +have crushed them. And this, surely, indicates the great gift of +Victorian lyrical poetry to the race. During a time of extreme mental +and moral restlessness, a time of speculation and evolution, when all +illusions are tested, all conventions overthrown, when the harder +elements of life have been brought violently to the front, and where +there is a temptation for the emancipated mind roughly to reject what is +not material and obvious, this art has preserved intact the lovelier +delusions of the spirit, all that is vague and incorporeal and illusory. +So that for Victorian Lyric generally no better final definition can be +given than is supplied by Mr. Robert Bridges in a little poem of +incomparable beauty, which may fitly bring this essay to a close:--_ + + _"I have loved flowers that fade, + Within whose magic tents + Rich hues have marriage made + With sweet immemorial scents: + A joy of love at sight,-- + A honeymoon delight, + That ages in an hour:-- + My song be like a flower._ + + _"I have loved airs that die + Before their charm is writ + Upon the liquid sky + Trembling to welcome it. + Notes that with pulse of fire + Proclaim the spirit's desire, + Then die, and are nowhere:-- + My song be like an air."_ + + Edmund Gosse. + + + + + Victorian Songs + + "Short swallow-flights of song" + + TENNYSON + + + + + [Decoration] + + HAMILTON AIDE. + + 1830. + + + _REMEMBER OR FORGET._ + + I. + + I sat beside the streamlet, + I watched the water flow, + As we together watched it + One little year ago; + The soft rain pattered on the leaves, + The April grass was wet, + Ah! folly to remember;-- + 'T is wiser to forget. + + II. + + The nightingales made vocal + June's palace paved with gold; + I watched the rose you gave me + Its warm red heart unfold; + But breath of rose and bird's song + Were fraught with wild regret. + 'T is madness to remember; + 'T were wisdom to forget. + + III. + + I stood among the gold corn, + Alas! no more, I knew, + To gather gleaner's measure + Of the love that fell from you. + For me, no gracious harvest-- + Would God we ne'er had met! + 'T is hard, Love, to remember, but + 'T is harder to forget. + + IV. + + The streamlet now is frozen, + The nightingales are fled, + The cornfields are deserted, + And every rose is dead. + I sit beside my lonely fire, + And pray for wisdom yet-- + For calmness to remember + Or courage to forget. + + [Decoration] + + + _OH, LET ME DREAM._ + + FROM "A NINE DAYS' WONDER." + + Oh! let me dream of happy days gone by, + Forgetting sorrows that have come between, + As sunlight gilds some distant summit high, + And leaves the valleys dark that intervene. + The phantoms of remorse that haunt + The soul, are laid beneath that spell; + As, in the music of a chaunt + Is lost the tolling of a bell. + Oh! let me dream of happy days gone by, etc. + + In youth, we plucked full many a flower that died, + Dropped on the pathway, as we danced along; + And now, we cherish each poor leaflet dried + In pages which to that dear past belong. + With sad crushed hearts they yet retain + Some semblance of their glories fled; + Like us, whose lineaments remain, + When all the fires of life are dead. + Oh! let me dream, etc. + + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + + + + _LOVE, THE PILGRIM._ + + SUGGESTED BY A SKETCH BY E. BURNE-JONES. + + Every day a Pilgrim, blindfold, + When the night and morning meet, + Entereth the slumbering city, + Stealeth down the silent street; + Lingereth round some battered doorway, + Leaves unblest some portal grand, + And the walls, where sleep the children, + Toucheth, with his warm young hand. + Love is passing! Love is passing!-- + Passing while ye lie asleep: + In your blessed dreams, O children, + Give him all your hearts to keep! + + Blindfold is this Pilgrim, Maiden. + Though to-day he touched thy door, + He may pass it by to-morrow-- + --Pass it--to return no more. + Let us then with prayers entreat him,-- + Youth! her heart, whose coldness grieves, + May one morn by Love be softened; + Prize the treasure that he leaves. + Love is passing! Love is passing! + All, with hearts to hope and pray, + Bid this pilgrim touch the lintels + Of your doorways every day. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. + + 1824-1889. + + + _LOVELY MARY DONNELLY._ + + Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best! + If fifty girls were round you, I 'd hardly see the rest; + Be what it may the time o' day, the place be where it will, + Sweet looks o' Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. + + Her eyes like mountain water that 's flowing on a rock, + How clear they are, how dark they are! they give me many a shock; + Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a show'r, + Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its pow'r. + + Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, + Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup, + Her hair 's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; + It 's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine. + + The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before, + No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; + But Mary kept the belt o' love, and O but she was gay! + She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away. + + When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete + The music nearly kill'd itself to listen to her feet; + The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, + But bless'd his luck to not be deaf when once her voice she raised. + + And evermore I 'm whistling or lilting what you sung, + Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; + But you 've as many sweethearts as you 'd count on both your hands, + And for myself there 's not a thumb or little finger stands. + + 'T is you 're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; + The higher I exalt you, the lower I 'm cast down. + If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, + And you to be his lady, I 'd own it was but right. + + O might we live together in a lofty palace hall, + Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! + O might we live together in a cottage mean and small, + With sods o' grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! + + O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty 's my distress. + It 's far too beauteous to be mine, but I 'll never wish it less. + The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; + But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go! + + [Decoration] + + + _SONG._ + + O spirit of the Summertime! + Bring back the roses to the dells; + The swallow from her distant clime, + The honey-bee from drowsy cells. + + Bring back the friendship of the sun; + The gilded evenings, calm and late, + When merry children homeward run, + And peeping stars bid lovers wait. + + Bring back the singing; and the scent + Of meadowlands at dewy prime;-- + Oh, bring again my heart's content, + Thou Spirit of the Summertime! + + + _SERENADE._ + + Oh, hearing sleep, and sleeping hear, + The while we dare to call thee dear, + So may thy dreams be good, altho' + The loving power thou dost not know. + As music parts the silence,--lo! + Through heaven the stars begin to peep, + To comfort us that darkling pine + Because those fairer lights of thine + Have set into the Sea of Sleep. + Yet closed still thine eyelids keep; + And may our voices through the sphere + Of Dreamland all as softly rise + As through these shadowy rural dells, + Where bashful Echo somewhere dwells, + And touch thy spirit to as soft replies. + May peace from gentle guardian skies, + Till watches of the dark are worn, + Surround thy bed, and joyous morn + Makes all the chamber rosy bright! + Good-night!--From far-off fields is borne + The drowsy Echo's faint 'Good-night,'-- + Good-night! Good-night! + + [Decoration] + + + _ACROSS THE SEA._ + + I walked in the lonesome evening, + And who so sad as I, + When I saw the young men and maidens + Merrily passing by. + To thee, my Love, to thee-- + So fain would I come to thee! + While the ripples fold upon sands of gold, + And I look across the sea. + + I stretch out my hands; who will clasp them? + I call,--thou repliest no word. + Oh, why should heart-longing be weaker + Than the waving wings of a bird! + To thee, my Love, to thee-- + So fain would I come to thee! + For the tide 's at rest from east to west, + And I look across the sea. + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + There 's joy in the hopeful morning, + There 's peace in the parting day, + There 's sorrow with every lover + Whose true love is far away. + To thee, my Love, to thee-- + So fain would I come to thee! + And the water 's bright in a still moonlight, + As I look across the sea. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. + + 1832. + + + _SERENADE._ + + Lute! breathe thy lowest in my Lady's ear, + Sing while she sleeps, "Ah! belle dame, aimez-vous?" + Till, dreaming still, she dream that I am here, + And wake to find it, as my love is, true; + Then, when she listens in her warm white nest, + Say in slow music,--softer, tenderer yet, + That lute-strings quiver when their tone 's at rest, + And my heart trembles when my lips are set. + + Stars! if my sweet love still a-dreaming lies, + Shine through the roses for a lover's sake + And send your silver to her lidded eyes, + Kissing them very gently till she wake; + Then while she wonders at the lay and light, + Tell her, though morning endeth star and song, + That ye live still, when no star glitters bright, + And my love lasteth, though it finds no tongue. + + [Decoration] + + + _A LOVE SONG OF HENRI QUATRE._ + + Come, rosy Day! + Come quick--I pray-- + I am so glad when I thee see! + Because my Fair, + Who is so dear, + Is rosy-red and white like thee. + + She lives, I think, + On heavenly drink + Dawn-dew, which Hebe pours for her; + Else--when I sip + At her soft lip + How smells it of ambrosia? + + She is so fair + None can compare; + And, oh, her slender waist divine! + Her sparkling eyes + Set in the skies + The morning stars would far outshine! + + Only to hear + Her voice so clear + The village gathers in the street; + And Tityrus, + Grown one of us, + Leaves piping on his flute so sweet. + + The Graces three, + Where'er she be, + Call all the Loves to flutter nigh; + And what she 'll say,-- + Speak when she may,-- + Is full of sense and majesty! + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + THOMAS ASHE. + + 1836-1889. + + + _NO AND YES._ + + If I could choose my paradise, + And please myself with choice of bliss, + Then I would have your soft blue eyes + And rosy little mouth to kiss! + Your lips, as smooth and tender, child, + As rose-leaves in a coppice wild. + + If fate bade choose some sweet unrest, + To weave my troubled life a snare, + Then I would say "her maiden breast + And golden ripple of her hair;" + And weep amid those tresses, child, + Contented to be thus beguiled. + + + _AT ALTENAHR._ + + 1872. + + _Meet we no angels, Pansie?_ + + Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, + In white, to find her lover; + The grass grew proud beneath her feet, + The green elm-leaves above her:-- + Meet we no angels, Pansie? + + She said, "We meet no angels now;" + And soft lights streamed upon her; + And with white hand she touched a bough; + She did it that great honour:-- + What! meet no angels, Pansie? + + O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes + Down-dropped brown eyes so tender! + Then what said I?--Gallant replies + Seem flattery, and offend her:-- + But,--meet no angels, Pansie? + + + _MARIT._ + + 1869-70. + + _C'est un songe que d'y penser._ + + My love, on a fair May morning, + Would weave a garland of May: + The dew hung frore, as her foot tripped o'er + The grass at dawn of the day; + On leaf and stalk, in each green wood-walk, + Till the sun should charm it away. + + Green as a leaf her kirtle, + Her bodice red as a rose: + Her white bare feet went softly and sweet + By roots where the violet grows; + Where speedwells azure as heaven, + Their sleepy eyes half close. + + O'er arms as fair as the lilies + No sleeve my love drew on: + She found a bower of the wildrose flower, + And for her breast culled one: + And I laugh and know her breasts will grow + Or ever a year be gone. + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + O sweet dream, wrought of a dear fore-thought, + Of a golden time to fall! + She seemed to sing, in her wandering, + Till doves in the elm-tops tall + Grew mute to hear; as her song rang clear + How love is the lord of all. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + ALFRED AUSTIN. + + 1835. + + + _A NIGHT IN JUNE._ + + Lady! in this night of June, + Fair like thee and holy, + Art thou gazing at the moon + That is rising slowly? + I am gazing on her now: + Something tells me, so art thou. + + Night hath been when thou and I + Side by side were sitting, + Watching o'er the moonlit sky + Fleecy cloudlets flitting. + Close our hands were linked then; + When will they be linked again? + + What to me the starlight still, + Or the moonbeams' splendour, + If I do not feel the thrill + Of thy fingers slender? + Summer nights in vain are clear, + If thy footstep be not near. + + Roses slumbering in their sheaths + O'er my threshold clamber, + And the honeysuckle wreathes + Its translucent amber + Round the gables of my home: + How is it thou dost not come? + + If thou camest, rose on rose + From its sleep would waken; + From each flower and leaf that blows + Spices would be shaken; + Floating down from star and tree, + Dreamy perfumes welcome thee. + + I would lead thee where the leaves + In the moon-rays glisten; + And, where shadows fall in sheaves, + We would lean and listen + For the song of that sweet bird + That in April nights is heard. + + And when weary lids would close, + And thy head was drooping, + Then, like dew that steeps the rose, + O'er thy languor stooping, + I would, till I woke a sigh, + Kiss thy sweet lips silently. + + I would give thee all I own, + All thou hast would borrow, + I from thee would keep alone + Fear and doubt and sorrow. + All of tender that is mine + Should most tenderly be thine. + + Moonlight! into other skies, + I beseech thee wander. + Cruel thus to mock mine eyes, + Idle, thus to squander + Love's own light on this dark spot;-- + For my lady cometh not! + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. + + 1803-1849. + + + _DREAM-PEDLARY._ + + I. + + If there were dreams to sell, + What would you buy? + Some cost a passing bell; + Some a light sigh, + That shakes from Life's fresh crown + Only a rose-leaf down. + If there were dreams to sell, + Merry and sad to tell, + And the crier rung the bell, + What would you buy? + + II. + + A cottage lone and still, + With bowers nigh, + Shadowy, my woes to still, + Until I die. + Such pearl from Life's fresh crown + Fain would I shake me down. + Were dreams to have at will, + This would best heal my ill, + This would I buy. + + III. + + But there were dreams to sell + Ill didst thou buy; + Life is a dream, they tell, + Waking, to die. + Dreaming a dream to prize, + Is wishing ghosts to rise; + And, if I had the spell + To call the buried well, + Which one would I? + + IV. + + If there are ghosts to raise, + What shall I call, + Out of hell's murky haze, + Heaven's blue pall? + Raise my loved long-lost boy + To lead me to his joy.-- + There are no ghosts to raise; + Out of death lead no ways; + Vain is the call. + + V. + + Know'st thou not ghosts to sue + No love thou hast. + Else lie, as I will do, + And breathe thy last. + So out of Life's fresh crown + Fall like a rose-leaf down. + Thus are the ghosts to woo; + Thus are all dreams made true, + Ever to last! + + + _SONG FROM THE SHIP._ + + FROM "DEATH'S JEST-BOOK." + + To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er; + The wanton water leaps in sport, + And rattles down the pebbly shore; + The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort, + And unseen Mermaids' pearly song + Comes bubbling up, the weeds among. + Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar: + To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er. + + To sea, to sea! Our wide-winged bark + Shall billowy cleave its sunny way, + And with its shadow, fleet and dark, + Break the caved Tritons' azure day, + Like mighty eagle soaring light + O'er antelopes on Alpine height. + The anchor heaves, the ship swings free, + The sails swell full. To sea, to sea! + + + _SONG._ + + My goblet's golden lips are dry, + And, as the rose doth pine + For dew, so doth for wine + My goblet's cup; + Rain, O! rain, or it will die; + Rain, fill it up! + + Arise, and get thee wings to-night, + AEtna! and let run o'er + Thy wines, a hill no more, + But darkly frown + A cloud, where eagles dare not soar, + Dropping rain down. + + + _SONG._ + + FROM "THE SECOND BROTHER." + + Strew not earth with empty stars, + Strew it not with roses, + Nor feathers from the crest of Mars, + Nor summer's idle posies. + 'T is not the primrose-sandalled moon, + Nor cold and silent morn, + Nor he that climbs the dusty noon, + Nor mower war with scythe that drops, + Stuck with helmed and turbaned tops + Of enemies new shorn. + Ye cups, ye lyres, ye trumpets know, + Pour your music, let it flow, + 'T is Bacchus' son who walks below. + + + _SONG, BY TWO VOICES._ + + FROM "THE BRIDES' TRAGEDY." + + FIRST VOICE. + + Who is the baby, that doth lie + Beneath the silken canopy + Of thy blue eye? + + SECOND. + + It is young Sorrow, laid asleep + In the crystal deep. + + BOTH. + + Let us sing his lullaby, + Heigho! a sob and a sigh. + + FIRST VOICE. + + What sound is that, so soft, so clear, + Harmonious as a bubbled tear + Bursting, we hear? + + SECOND. + + It is young Sorrow, slumber breaking, + Suddenly awaking. + + BOTH. + + Let us sing his lullaby, + Heigho! a sob and a sigh. + + [Decoration] + + + _SONG._ + + FROM "TORRISMOND." + + How many times do I love thee, dear? + Tell me how many thoughts there be + In the atmosphere + Of a new-fall'n year, + Whose white and sable hours appear + The latest flake of Eternity:-- + So many times do I love thee, dear. + + How many times do I love again? + Tell me how many beads there are + In a silver chain + Of evening rain, + Unravelled from the tumbling main, + And threading the eye of a yellow star:-- + So many times do I love again. + + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + + + + [Decoration] + + WILLIAM COX BENNETT. + + 1820 + + + _CRADLE SONG._ + + Sleep! the bird is in its nest; + Sleep! the bee is hushed in rest; + Sleep! rocked on thy mother's breast! + Lullaby! + To thy mother's fond heart pressed, + Lullaby! + + Sleep! the waning daylight dies; + Sleep! the stars dream in the skies; + Daisies long have closed their eyes; + Lullaby! + Calm, how calm on all things lies! + Lullaby! + + Sleep then, sleep! my heart's delight! + Sleep! and through the darksome night + Round thy bed God's angels bright + Lullaby! + Guard thee till I come with light! + Lullaby! + + [Decoration] + + + _MY ROSES BLOSSOM THE WHOLE YEAR ROUND._ + + My roses blossom the whole year round; + For, O they grow on enchanted ground; + Divine is the earth + Where they spring to birth; + On dimpling cheeks with love and mirth, + They 're found + They 're ever found. + + My lilies no change of seasons heed; + Nor shelter from storms or frosts they need; + For, O they grow + On a neck of snow, + Nor all the wintry blasts that blow + They heed, + They ever heed. + + + _CRADLE SONG._ + + Lullaby! O lullaby! + Baby, hush that little cry! + Light is dying, + Bats are flying, + Bees to-day with work have done; + So, till comes the morrow's sun, + Let sleep kiss those bright eyes dry! + Lullaby! O lullaby! + + Lullaby! O lullaby! + Hushed are all things far and nigh; + Flowers are closing, + Birds reposing, + All sweet things with life have done; + Sweet, till dawns the morning sun, + Sleep then kiss those blue eyes dry! + Lullaby! O lullaby! + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + F. W. BOURDILLON. + + 1852. + + + _LOVE'S MEINIE._ + + There is no summer ere the swallows come, + Nor Love appears, + Till Hope, Love's light-winged herald, lifts the gloom + Of years. + + There is no summer left when swallows fly, + And Love at last, + When hopes which filled its heaven droop and die, + Is past. + + + _THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES._ + + The night has a thousand eyes, + And the day but one; + Yet the light of the bright world dies + With the dying sun. + + The mind has a thousand eyes, + And the heart but one; + Yet the light of a whole life dies + When love is done. + + [Decoration] + + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + + + + _A LOST VOICE._ + + A thousand voices fill my ears + All day until the light grows pale; + But silence falls when night-time nears, + And where art thou, sweet nightingale? + + Was that thine echo, faint and far? + Nay, all is hushed as heaven above; + In earth no voice, in heaven no star, + And in my heart no dream of love. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + ROBERT BUCHANAN. + + _SERENADE._ + + Sleep sweet, beloved one, sleep sweet! + Without here night is growing, + The dead leaf falls, the dark boughs meet, + And a chill wind is blowing. + Strange shapes are stirring in the night, + To the deep breezes wailing, + And slow, with wistful gleams of light, + The storm-tost moon is sailing. + + Sleep sweet, beloved one, sleep sweet! + Fold thy white hands, my blossom! + Thy warm limbs in thy lily sheet, + Thy hands upon thy bosom. + Though evil thoughts may walk the dark, + Not one shall near thy chamber; + But shapes divine shall pause to mark, + Singing to lutes of amber. + + Sleep sweet, beloved one, sleep sweet! + Though, on thy bosom creeping, + Strange hands are laid, to feel the beat + Of thy soft heart in sleeping. + The brother angels, Sleep and Death, + Stop by thy couch and eye thee; + And Sleep stoops down to drink thy breath, + While Death goes softly by thee! + + [Decoration] + + + _SONG._ + + FROM "LOVE IN WINTER." + + "O Love is like the roses, + And every rose shall fall, + For sure as summer closes + They perish one and all. + Then love, while leaves are on the tree, + And birds sing in the bowers: + When winter comes, too late 't will be + To pluck the happy flowers." + + "O Love is like the roses, + Love comes, and Love must flee! + Before the summer closes + Love's rapture and Love's glee!" + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + MORTIMER COLLINS. + + 1827-1876. + + + _TO F. C._ + + 20th February 1875. + + Fast falls the snow, O lady mine, + Sprinkling the lawn with crystals fine, + But by the gods we won't repine + While we 're together, + We 'll chat and rhyme and kiss and dine, + Defying weather. + + So stir the fire and pour the wine, + And let those sea-green eyes divine + Pour their love-madness into mine: + I don't care whether + 'T is snow or sun or rain or shine + If we 're together. + + + _A GAME OF CHESS._ + + Terrace and lawn are white with frost, + Whose fretwork flowers upon the panes-- + A mocking dream of summer, lost + 'Mid winter's icy chains. + + White-hot, indoors, the great logs gleam, + Veiled by a flickering flame of blue: + I see my love as in a dream-- + Her eyes are azure, too. + + She puts her hair behind her ears + (Each little ear so like a shell), + Touches her ivory Queen, and fears + She is not playing well. + + For me, I think of nothing less: + I think how those pure pearls become her-- + And which is sweetest, winter chess + Or garden strolls in summer. + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + O linger, frost, upon the pane! + O faint blue flame, still softly rise! + O, dear one, thus with me remain, + That I may watch thine eyes! + + [Decoration] + + + _MULTUM IN PARVO._ + + A little shadow makes the sunrise sad, + A little trouble checks the race of joy, + A little agony may drive men mad, + A little madness may the soul destroy: + Such is the world's annoy. + + Ay, and the rose is but a little flower + Which the red Queen of all the garden is: + And Love, which lasteth but a little hour, + A moment's rapture and a moment's kiss, + Is what no man would miss. + + + _VIOLETS AT HOME._ + + I. + + O happy buds of violet! + I give thee to my sweet, and she + Puts them where something sweeter yet + Must always be. + + II. + + White violets find whiter rest: + For fairest flowers how fair a fate! + For me remain, O fragrant breast! + Inviolate. + + + _MY THRUSH._ + + All through the sultry hours of June, + From morning blithe to golden noon, + And till the star of evening climbs + The gray-blue East, a world too soon, + There sings a Thrush amid the limes. + + God's poet, hid in foliage green, + Sings endless songs, himself unseen; + Right seldom come his silent times. + Linger, ye summer hours serene! + Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes. + + . . . . . . . + + May I not dream God sends thee there, + Thou mellow angel of the air, + Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes + With music's soul, all praise and prayer? + Is that thy lesson in the limes? + + Closer to God art thou than I: + His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly + Through silent aether's sunnier climes. + Ah, never may thy music die! + Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes! + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK. + + 1826-1887. + + + _TOO LATE._ + + _"Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu."_ + + Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, + In the old likeness that I knew, + I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. + + Never a scornful word should grieve ye, + I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do;-- + Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. + + O to call back the days that are not! + My eyes were blinded, your words were few: + Do you know the truth now up in heaven, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true? + + I never was worthy of you, Douglas; + Not half worthy the like of you: + Now all men beside seem to me like shadows-- + I love _you_, Douglas, tender and true. + + Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, + Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; + As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. + + [Decoration] + + + _A SILLY SONG._ + + "O heart, my heart!" she said, and heard + His mate the blackbird calling, + While through the sheen of the garden green + May rain was softly falling,-- + Aye softly, softly falling. + + The buttercups across the field + Made sunshine rifts of splendour: + The round snow-bud of the thorn in the wood + Peeped through its leafage tender, + As the rain came softly falling. + + "O heart, my heart!" she said and smiled, + "There 's not a tree of the valley, + Or a leaf I wis which the rain's soft kiss + Freshens in yonder alley, + Where the drops keep ever falling,-- + + "There 's not a foolish flower i' the grass, + Or bird through the woodland calling, + So glad again of the coming rain + As I of these tears now falling,-- + These happy tears down falling." + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + GEORGE DARLEY. + + 1795-1846. + + + _MAY DAY._ + + FROM "SYLVIA": _Act III. Scene ii_. + + O may, thou art a merry time, + Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! + When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, + And summer-flowers to sow the dale. + + When lasses and their lovers meet + Beneath the early village-thorn, + And to the sound of tabor sweet + Bid welcome to the Maying-morn! + + O May, thou art a merry time, + Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! + When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, + And summer-flowers to sow the dale. + + When grey-beards and their gossips come + With crutch in hand our sports to see, + And both go tottering, tattling home, + Topful of wine as well as glee! + + O May, thou art a merry time, + Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! + When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, + And summer-flowers to sow the dale. + + But Youth was aye the time for bliss, + So taste it, Shepherds! while ye may: + For who can tell that joy like this + Will come another holiday? + + O May, thou art a merry time, + Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! + When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, + And summer-flowers to sow the dale. + + + _I'VE BEEN ROAMING._ + + FROM "LILIAN OF THE VALE." + + I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! + Where the meadow dew is sweet, + And like a queen I 'm coming + With its pearls upon my feet. + + I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! + O'er red rose and lily fair, + And like a sylph I 'm coming + With their blossoms in my hair. + + I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! + Where the honeysuckle creeps, + And like a bee I 'm coming + With its kisses on my lips. + + I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! + Over hill and over plain, + And like a bird I 'm coming + To my bower back again! + + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + + _SYLVIA'S SONG._ + + The streams that wind amid the hills + And lost in pleasure slowly roam, + While their deep joy the valley fills,-- + Even these will leave their mountain home; + So may it, Love! with others be, + But I will never wend from thee. + + The leaf forsakes the parent spray, + The blossom quits the stem as fast; + The rose-enamour'd bird will stray + And leave his eglantine at last: + So may it, Love! with others be, + But I will never wend from thee. + + + _SERENADE._ + + FROM "SYLVIA": _Act IV. Scene I_. + + Romanzo sings: + + Awake thee, my Lady-love! + Wake thee, and rise! + The sun through the bower peeps + Into thine eyes! + + Behold how the early lark + Springs from the corn! + Hark, hark how the flower-bird + Winds her wee horn! + + The swallow's glad shriek is heard + All through the air! + The stock-dove is murmuring + Loud as she dare! + + Apollo's winged bugleman + Cannot contain, + But peals his loud trumpet-call + Once and again! + + Then wake thee, my Lady-love, + Bird of my bower! + The sweetest and sleepiest + Bird at this hour! + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + LORD DE TABLEY. + + 1835. + + + _A WINTER SKETCH._ + + When the snow begins to feather, + And the woods begin to roar + Clashing angry boughs together, + As the breakers grind the shore + Nature then a bankrupt goes, + Full of wreck and full of woes. + + When the swan for warmer forelands + Leaves the sea-firth's icebound edge, + When the gray geese from the morelands + Cleave the clouds in noisy wedge, + Woodlands stand in frozen chains, + Hung with ropes of solid rains. + + Shepherds creep to byre and haven, + Sheep in drifts are nipped and numb; + Some belated rook or raven + Rocks upon a sign-post dumb; + Mere-waves, solid as a clod, + Roar with skaters, thunder-shod. + + All the roofs and chimneys rumble; + Roads are ridged with slush and sleet; + Down the orchard apples tumble; + Ploughboys stamp their frosty feet; + Millers, jolted down the lanes, + Hardly feel for cold their reins. + + Snipes are calling from the trenches, + Frozen half and half at flow; + In the porches servant wenches + Work with shovels at the snow; + Rusty blackbirds, weak of wing, + Clean forget they once could sing. + + Dogs and boys fetch down the cattle, + Deep in mire and powdered pale; + Spinning-wheels commence to rattle; + Landlords spice the smoking ale. + Hail, white winter, lady fine, + In a cup of elder wine! + + [Decoration] + + + _THE SECOND MADRIGAL._ + + Woo thy lass while May is here; + Winter vows are colder. + Have thy kiss when lips are near; + To-morrow you are older. + + Think, if clear the throstle sing, + A month his note will thicken; + A throat of gold in a golden spring + At the edge of the snow will sicken. + + Take thy cup and take thy girl, + While they come for asking; + In thy heyday melt the pearl + At the love-ray basking. + + Ale is good for careless bards, + Wine for wayworn sinners. + They who hold the strongest cards + Rise from life as winners. + + + + + [Decoration] + + AUBREY DE VERE. + + 1788-1846. + + + _SONG._ + + I. + + Softly, O midnight Hours! + Move softly o'er the bowers + Where lies in happy sleep a girl so fair! + For ye have power, men say, + Our hearts in sleep to sway, + And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare. + Round ivory neck and arm + Enclasp a separate charm: + Hang o'er her poised; but breathe nor sigh nor prayer: + Silently ye may smile, + But hold your breath the while, + And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair! + + II. + + Bend down your glittering urns + Ere yet the dawn returns, + And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread; + Upon the air rain balm; + Bid all the woods be calm; + Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed. + That so the Maiden may + With smiles your care repay + When from her couch she lifts her golden head; + Waking with earliest birds, + Ere yet the misty herds + Leave warm 'mid the grey grass their dusky bed. + + [Decoration] + + + _SONG._ + + Seek not the tree of silkiest bark + And balmiest bud, + To carve her name--while yet 't is dark-- + Upon the wood! + The world is full of noble tasks + And wreaths hard-won: + Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands, + Till day is done. + + Sing not that violet-veined skin, + That cheek's pale roses; + The lily of that form wherein + Her soul reposes! + Forth to the fight, true man, true knight! + The clash of arms + Shall more prevail than whispered tale + To win her charms. + + The warrior for the True, the Right, + Fights in Love's name: + The love that lures thee from that fight + Lures thee to shame. + That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves + The spirit free,-- + That love, or none, is fit for one, + Man-shaped like thee. + + [Decoration] + + + _SONG._ + + I. + + When I was young, I said to Sorrow, + "Come, and I will play with thee:"-- + He is near me now all day; + And at night returns to say, + "I will come again to-morrow, + I will come and stay with thee." + + II. + + Through the woods we walk together; + His soft footsteps rustle nigh me; + To shield an unregarded head, + He hath built a winter shed; + And all night in rainy weather, + I hear his gentle breathings by me. + + + + + [Decoration] + + CHARLES DICKENS. + + 1812-1870. + + + _THE IVY GREEN._ + + Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, + That creepeth o'er ruins old! + Of right choice food are his meals I ween, + In his cell so lone and cold. + The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, + To pleasure his dainty whim: + And the mouldering dust that years have made + Is a merry meal for him. + Creeping where no life is seen, + A rare old plant is the Ivy green. + + Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, + And a staunch old heart has he. + How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, + To his friend, the huge Oak tree! + And slily he traileth along the ground, + And his leaves he gently waves, + As he joyously hugs and crawleth round + The rich mould of dead men's graves. + Creeping where grim death has been, + A rare old plant is the Ivy green. + + Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, + And nations have scattered been; + But the stout old Ivy shall never fade + From its hale and hearty green. + The brave old plant in its lonely days + Shall fatten upon the past: + For the stateliest building man can raise + Is the Ivy's food at last. + Creeping on, where time has been, + A rare old plant is the Ivy green. + + + + + [Decoration] + + AUSTIN DOBSON. + + 1840. + + + _THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S._ + + A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN. + + The ladies of St. James's + Go swinging to the play; + Their footmen run before them, + With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" + But Phyllida, my Phyllida! + She takes her buckled shoon, + When we go out a-courting + Beneath the harvest moon. + + The ladies of St. James's + Wear satin on their backs; + They sit all night at _Ombre_, + With candles all of wax: + But Phyllida, my Phyllida! + She dons her russet gown, + And runs to gather May dew + Before the world is down. + + The ladies of St. James's + They are so fine and fair, + You 'd think a box of essences + Was broken in the air: + But Phyllida, my Phyllida! + The breath of heath and furze, + When breezes blow at morning, + Is scarce so fresh as hers. + + The ladies of St. James's + They 're painted to the eyes; + Their white it stays forever, + Their red it never dies: + But Phyllida, my Phyllida! + Her color comes and goes; + It trembles to a lily, + It wavers to a rose. + + The ladies of St. James's, + With "Mercy!" and with "Lud!" + They season all their speeches + (They come of noble blood): + But Phyllida, my Phyllida! + Her shy and simple words + Are sweet as, after rain-drops, + The music of the birds. + + The ladies of St. James's, + They have their fits and freaks; + They smile on you--for seconds, + They frown on you--for weeks: + But Phyllida, my Phyllida! + Come either storm or shine, + From Shrovetide unto Shrovetide + Is always true--and mine. + + My Phyllida, my Phyllida! + I care not though they heap + The hearts of all St. James's, + And give me all to keep; + I care not whose the beauties + Of all the world may be, + For Phyllida--for Phyllida + Is all the world to me! + + [Decoration] + + + _THE MILKMAID._ + + A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. + + Across the grass I see her pass; + She comes with tripping pace,-- + A maid I know,--and March winds blow + Her hair across her face;-- + With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! + Dolly shall be mine, + Before the spray is white with May, + Or blooms the eglantine. + + The March winds blow. I watch her go: + Her eye is brown and clear; + Her cheek is brown and soft as down + (To those who see it near!)-- + With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! + Dolly shall be mine, + Before the spray is white with May, + Or blooms the eglantine. + + What has she not that they have got,-- + The dames that walk in silk! + If she undo her 'kerchief blue, + Her neck is white as milk. + With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! + Dolly shall be mine, + Before the spray is white with May, + Or blooms the eglantine. + + Let those who will be proud and chill! + For me, from June to June, + My Dolly's words are sweet as curds,-- + Her laugh is like a tune;-- + With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! + Dolly shall be mine, + Before the spray is white with May, + Or blooms the eglantine. + + Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear! + O tall Lent-lilies, flame! + There 'll be a bride at Easter-tide, + And Dolly is her name. + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! + Dolly shall be mine, + Before the spray is white with May, + Or blooms the eglantine. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + ALFRED DOMETT. + + 1811-1887. + + + _A GLEE FOR WINTER._ + + Hence, rude Winter! crabbed old fellow, + Never merry, never mellow! + Well-a-day! in rain and snow + What will keep one's heart aglow? + Groups of kinsmen, old and young, + Oldest they old friends among! + Groups of friends, so old and true, + That they seem our kinsmen too! + These all merry all together, + Charm away chill Winter weather! + + What will kill this dull old fellow? + Ale that 's bright, and wine that 's mellow! + Dear old songs for ever new; + Some true love, and laughter too; + Pleasant wit, and harmless fun, + And a dance when day is done! + Music--friends so true and tried-- + Whispered love by warm fireside-- + Mirth at all times all together-- + Make sweet May of Winter weather! + + [Decoration] + + + _A KISS._ + + SAPPHO TO PHAON. + + I. + + Sweet mouth! O let me take + One draught from that delicious cup! + The hot Sahara-thirst to slake + That burns me up! + + II. + + Sweet breath!--all flowers that are, + Within that darling frame must bloom; + My heart revives so at the rare + Divine perfume! + + III. + + --Nay, 't is a dear deceit, + A drunkard's cup that mouth of thine; + Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet, + That fragrance fine! + + IV. + + I drank--the drink betrayed me + Into a madder, fiercer fever; + The scent of those love-blossoms made me + More faint than ever! + + V. + + Yet though quick death it were + That rich heart-vintage I must drain, + And quaff that hidden garden's air, + Again--again! + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + LADY DUFFERIN. + + 1807-1867. + + + _SONG._[A] + + April 30, 1833. + + I. + + When another's voice thou hearest, + With a sad and gentle tone, + Let its sound but waken, dearest, + Memory of _my_ love alone! + When in stranger lands thou meetest + Warm, true hearts, which welcome thee, + Let each friendly look thou greetest + Seem a message, Love, from _me_! + + II. + + When night's quiet sky is o'er thee, + When the pale stars dimly burn, + Dream that _one_ is watching for thee, + Who but lives for thy return! + Wheresoe'er thy steps are roving, + Night or day, by land or sea, + Think of her, whose life of loving + Is but one long thought of thee! + + [Decoration] + + [Footnote A: These lines were written to the author's husband, + then at sea, in 1833, and set to music by herself.] + + + _LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT._ + + I 'm sitting on the stile, Mary, + Where we sat, side by side, + That bright May morning long ago + When first you were my bride. + The corn was springing fresh and green, + The lark sang loud and high, + The red was on your lip, Mary, + The love-light in your eye. + + The place is little changed, Mary, + The day is bright as then, + The lark's loud song is in my ear, + The corn is green again; + But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, + Your breath warm on my cheek, + And I still keep list'ning for the words + You never more may speak. + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + 'T is but a step down yonder lane, + The little Church stands near-- + The Church where we were wed, Mary,-- + I see the spire from here; + But the graveyard lies between, Mary,-- + My step might break your rest,-- + Where you, my darling, lie asleep + With your baby on your breast. + + I 'm very lonely now, Mary,-- + The poor make no new friends;-- + But, oh! they love the better still + The few our Father sends. + And you were all I had, Mary, + My blessing and my pride; + There 's nothing left to care for now + Since my poor Mary died. + + Yours was the good brave heart, Mary, + That still kept hoping on, + When trust in God had left my soul, + And half my strength was gone. + There was comfort ever on your lip, + And the kind look on your brow. + I bless you, Mary, for that same, + Though you can't hear me now. + + I thank you for the patient smile + When your heart was fit to break; + When the hunger pain was gnawing there + You hid it for my sake. + I bless you for the pleasant word + When your heart was sad and sore. + Oh! I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, + Where grief can't reach you more! + + I 'm bidding you a long farewell, + My Mary--kind and true! + But I 'll not forget you, darling, + In the land I 'm going to. + They say there 's bread and work for all, + And the sun shines always there; + But I 'll not forget old Ireland, + Were it fifty times as fair. + + And when amid those grand old woods + I sit and shut my eyes, + My heart will travel back again + To where my Mary lies; + I 'll think I see the little stile + Where we sat, side by side,-- + And the springing corn and bright May morn, + When first you were my bride. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + MICHAEL FIELD. + + + _WINDS TO-DAY ARE LARGE AND FREE._ + + Winds to-day are large and free, + Winds to-day are westerly; + From the land they seem to blow + Whence the sap begins to flow + And the dimpled light to spread, + From the country of the dead. + + Ah, it is a wild, sweet land + Where the coming May is planned, + Where such influences throb + As our frosts can never rob + Of their triumph, when they bound + Through the tree and from the ground. + + Great within me is my soul, + Great to journey to its goal, + To the country of the dead; + For the cornel-tips are red, + And a passion rich in strife + Drives me toward the home of life. + + Oh, to keep the spring with them + Who have flushed the cornel-stem, + Who imagine at its source + All the year's delicious course, + Then express by wind and light + Something of their rapture's height! + + [Decoration] + + + _LET US WREATHE THE MIGHTY CUP._ + + Let us wreathe the mighty cup, + Then with song we 'll lift it up, + And, before we drain the glow + Of the juice that foams below + Flowers and cool leaves round the brim, + Let us swell the praise of him + Who is tyrant of the heart, + Cupid with his flaming dart! + + Pride before his face is bowed, + Strength and heedless beauty cowed; + Underneath his fatal wings + Bend discrowned the heads of kings; + Maidens blanch beneath his eye + And its laughing mastery; + Through each land his arrows sound, + By his fetters all are bound. + + + _WHERE WINDS ABOUND._ + + Where winds abound, + And fields are hilly, + Shy daffadilly + Looks down on the ground. + + Rose cones of larch + Are just beginning; + Though oaks are spinning + No oak-leaves in March. + + Spring 's at the core, + The boughs are sappy: + Good to be happy + So long, long before! + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + NORMAN GALE. + + 1862. + + + _A SONG._ + + First the fine, faint, dreamy motion + Of the tender blood + Circling in the veins of children-- + This is Life, the bud. + + Next the fresh, advancing beauty + Growing from the gloom, + Waking eyes and fuller bosom-- + This is Life, the bloom. + + Then the pain that follows after, + Grievous to be borne, + Pricking, steeped in subtle poison-- + This is Love, the thorn. + + + _SONG._ + + Wait but a little while-- + The bird will bring + A heart in tune for melodies + Unto the spring, + Till he who 's in the cedar there + Is moved to trill a song so rare, + And pipe her fair. + + Wait but a little while-- + The bud will break; + The inner rose will ope and glow + For summer's sake; + Fond bees will lodge within her breast + Till she herself is plucked and prest + Where I would rest. + + Wait but a little while-- + The maid will grow + Gracious with lips and hands to thee, + With breast of snow. + To-day Love 's mute, but time hath sown + A soul in her to match thine own, + Though yet ungrown. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + EDMUND GOSSE. + + 1849. + + + _SONG FOR THE LUTE._ + + I bring a garland for your head + Of blossoms fresh and fair; + My own hands wound their white and red + To ring about your hair: + Here is a lily, here a rose, + A warm narcissus that scarce blows, + And fairer blossoms no man knows. + + So crowned and chapleted with flowers, + I pray you be not proud; + For after brief and summer hours + Comes autumn with a shroud;-- + Though fragrant as a flower you lie, + You and your garland, bye and bye, + Will fade and wither up and die. + + + + + [Decoration] + + THOMAS HOOD. + + 1798-1845. + + + _BALLAD._ + + I. + + It was not in the winter + Our loving lot was cast; + It was the time of roses,-- + We plucked them as we passed; + + II. + + That churlish season never frowned + On early lovers yet:-- + Oh, no--the world was newly crowned + With flowers when first we met! + + III. + + 'T was twilight, and I bade you go, + But still you held me fast; + It was the time of roses,-- + We plucked them as we passed.-- + + [Decoration] + + + _SONG._ + + O Lady, leave thy silken thread + And flowery tapestrie: + There 's living roses on the bush, + And blossoms on the tree; + Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand + Some random bud will meet; + Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find + The daisy at thy feet. + + 'T is like the birthday of the world, + When earth was born in bloom; + The light is made of many dyes, + The air is all perfume; + There 's crimson buds, and white and blue-- + The very rainbow showers + Have turned to blossoms where they fell, + And sown the earth with flowers. + + There 's fairy tulips in the east, + The garden of the sun; + The very streams reflect the hues, + And blossom as they run: + While Morn opes like a crimson rose, + Still wet with pearly showers; + Then, Lady, leave the silken thread + Thou twinest into flowers! + + [Decoration] + + + _I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER._ + + I remember, I remember, + The house where I was born, + The little window where the sun + Came peeping in at morn; + He never came a wink too soon, + Nor brought too long a day, + But now, I often wish the night + Had borne my breath away! + + I remember, I remember, + The roses, red and white, + The vi'lets, and the lily-cups, + Those flowers made of light! + The lilacs where the robin built, + And where my brother set + The laburnum on his birthday,-- + The tree is living yet! + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + I remember, I remember + Where I was used to swing, + And thought the air must rush as fresh + To swallows on the wing; + My spirit flew in feathers then, + That is so heavy now, + And summer pools could hardly cool + The fever on my brow! + + I remember, I remember + The fir trees dark and high; + I used to think their slender tops + Were close against the sky: + It was a childish ignorance, + But now 't is little joy + To know I 'm farther off from heav'n + Than when I was a boy. + + + _BALLAD._ + + She 's up and gone, the graceless Girl! + And robbed my failing years; + My blood before was thin and cold + But now 't is turned to tears;-- + My shadow falls upon my grave, + So near the brink I stand, + She might have stayed a little yet, + And led me by the hand! + + Ay, call her on the barren moor, + And call her on the hill, + 'T is nothing but the heron's cry, + And plover's answer shrill; + My child is flown on wilder wings, + Than they have ever spread, + And I may even walk a waste + That widened when she fled. + + Full many a thankless child has been, + But never one like mine; + Her meat was served on plates of gold, + Her drink was rosy wine; + But now she 'll share the robin's food, + And sup the common rill, + Before her feet will turn again + To meet her father's will! + + [Decoration] + + + _SONG._ + + I. + + The stars are with the voyager + Wherever he may sail; + The moon is constant to her time; + The sun will never fail; + But follow, follow round the world, + The green earth and the sea; + So love is with the lover's heart, + Wherever he may be. + + II. + + Wherever he may be, the stars + Must daily lose their light; + The moon will veil her in the shade; + The sun will set at night. + The sun may set, but constant love + Will shine when he 's away; + So that dull night is never night, + And day is brighter day. + + + + + [Decoration] + + RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON). + + 1809-1885. + + + _THE BROOKSIDE._ + + I wandered by the brook-side, + I wandered by the mill,-- + I could not hear the brook flow, + The noisy wheel was still; + There was no burr of grasshopper, + No chirp of any bird, + But the beating of my own heart + Was all the sound I heard. + + I sat beside the elm-tree, + I watched the long, long, shade, + And as it grew still longer, + I did not feel afraid; + For I listened for a footfall, + I listened for a word,-- + But the beating of my own heart + Was all the sound I heard. + + He came not,--no, he came not,-- + The night came on alone,-- + The little stars sat one by one, + Each on his golden throne; + The evening air passed by my cheek, + The leaves above were stirred,-- + But the beating of my own heart + Was all the sound I heard. + + Fast silent tears were flowing, + When something stood behind,-- + A hand was on my shoulder, + I knew its touch was kind: + It drew me nearer--nearer,-- + We did not speak one word, + For the beating of our own hearts + Was all the sound we heard. + + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + + _THE VENETIAN SERENADE._ + + When along the light ripple the far serenade + Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid, + She may open the window that looks on the stream,-- + She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream; + Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom, + "I am coming--Stali[B]--but you know not for whom! + Stali--not for whom!" + + Now the tones become clearer,--you hear more and more + How the water divided returns on the oar,-- + Does the prow of the Gondola strike on the stair? + Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare? + Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view, + "I am passing--Premi--but I stay not for you! + Premi--not for you!" + + Then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear, + Then awake not, fair sleeper--believe he is here; + For the young and the loving no sorrow endures, + If to-day be another's,--to-morrow is yours; + May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true, + "I am coming--Sciar--and for you and to you! + Sciar--and to you!" + + [Decoration] + + [Footnote B: The words here used are the calls of the gondoliers, + indicating the direction they are rowing. "Sciar" is to stop the + boat.] + + + _FROM LOVE AND NATURE._ + + The Sun came through the frosty mist + Most like a dead-white moon; + Thy soothing tones I seemed to list, + As voices in a swoon. + + Still as an island stood our ship, + The waters gave no sound, + But when I touched thy quivering lip + I felt the world go round. + + We seemed the only sentient things + Upon that silent sea: + Our hearts the only living springs + Of all that yet could be! + + + + + [Decoration] + + JEAN INGELOW. + + 1830. + + + _THE LONG WHITE SEAM._ + + As I came round the harbor buoy, + The lights began to gleam, + No wave the land-locked water stirred, + The crags were white as cream; + And I marked my love by candle-light + Sewing her long white seam. + It 's aye sewing ashore, my dear, + Watch and steer at sea, + It 's reef and furl, and haul the line, + Set sail and think of thee. + + I climbed to reach her cottage door; + O sweetly my love sings! + Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, + My soul to meet it springs + As the shining water leaped of old, + When stirred by angel wings. + Aye longing to list anew, + Awake and in my dream, + But never a song she sang like this, + Sewing her long white seam. + + Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, + That brought me in to thee, + And peace drop down on that low roof + For the sight that I did see, + And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear + All for the love of me. + For O, for O, with brows bent low + By the candle's flickering gleam, + Her wedding gown it was she wrought, + Sewing the long white seam. + + + _LOVE._ + + FROM "SONGS OF SEVEN." + + I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, + Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; + "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover-- + Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, wait + Till I listen and hear + If a step draweth near, + For my love he is late! + + "The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, + A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, + The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: + To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? + Let the star-clusters grow, + Let the sweet waters flow, + And cross quickly to me. + + "You night moths that hover where honey brims over + From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; + You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover + To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. + Ah, my sailor, make haste, + For the time runs to waste, + And my love lieth deep-- + + "Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, + I 've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." + By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, + Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight; + But I 'll love him more, more + Than e'er wife loved before, + Be the days dark or bright. + + [Decoration] + + + _SWEET IS CHILDHOOD._ + + Sweet is childhood--childhood 's over, + Kiss and part. + Sweet is youth; but youth 's a rover-- + So 's my heart. + Sweet is rest; but by all showing + Toil is nigh. + We must go. Alas! the going, + Say "good-bye." + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + 1819-1875. + + + _AIRLY BEACON._ + + Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; + Oh the pleasant sight to see + Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, + While my love climbed up to me! + + Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; + Oh the happy hours we lay + Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, + Courting through the summer's day! + + Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; + Oh the weary haunt for me, + All alone on Airly Beacon, + With his baby on my knee! + + + _THE SANDS OF DEE._ + + "Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home + Across the sands of Dee;" + The western wind was wild and dark with foam, + And all alone went she. + + The western tide crept up along the sand, + And o'er and o'er the sand, + And round and round the sand, + As far as eye could see. + The rolling mist came down and hid the land: + And never home came she. + + "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- + A tress of golden hair, + A drowned maiden's hair + Above the nets at sea?" + Was never salmon yet that shone so fair + Among the stakes on Dee. + + They rowed her in across the rolling foam, + The cruel crawling foam, + The cruel hungry foam, + To her grave beside the sea: + But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home + Across the sands of Dee. + + [Decoration] + + + _THREE FISHERS WENT SAILING._ + + Three fishers went sailing away to the West, + Away to the West as the sun went down; + Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, + And the children stood watching them out of the town; + For men must work, and women must weep, + And there 's little to earn, and many to keep, + Though the harbor bar be moaning. + + Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, + And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; + They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, + And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. + But men must work, and women must weep, + Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, + And the harbor bar be moaning. + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + Three corpses lay out on the shining sands + In the morning gleam as the tide went down, + And the women are weeping and wringing their hands + For those who will never come home to the town; + For men must work, and women must weep, + And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep; + And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. + + [Decoration] + + + _A FAREWELL._ + + To C. E. G.--1856. + + My fairest child, I have no song to give you; + No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray; + Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I 'll leave you, + For every day. + + I 'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol + Than lark who hails the dawn of breezy down; + To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel + Than Shakespeare's crown. + + Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever; + Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long; + And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever, + One grand sweet song. + + + + + [Decoration] + + WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. + + 1775-1864. + + + _ROSE AYLMER._ + + Ah, what avails the sceptered race! + Ah, what the form divine! + What every virtue, every grace! + Rose Aylmer, all were thine. + Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes + May weep, but never see, + A night of memories and of sighs + I consecrate to thee. + + + _RUBIES._ + + Often I have heard it said + That her lips are ruby-red. + Little heed I what they say, + I have seen as red as they. + Ere she smiled on other men, + Real rubies were they then. + + When she kissed me once in play, + Rubies were less bright than they, + And less bright were those which shone + In the palace of the Sun. + Will they be as bright again? + Not if kissed by other men. + + [Decoration] + + + _THE FAULT IS NOT MINE._ + + The fault is not mine if I love you too much, + I loved you too little too long, + Such ever your graces, your tenderness such, + And the music the heart gave the tongue. + + A time is now coming when Love must be gone, + Tho' he never abandoned me yet. + Acknowledge our friendship, our passion disown, + Our follies (ah can you?) forget. + + [Decoration] + + + _UNDER THE LINDENS._ + + Under the lindens lately sat + A couple, and no more, in chat; + I wondered what they would be at + Under the lindens. + + I saw four eyes and four lips meet, + I heard the words, _"How sweet! how sweet!"_ + Had then the Faeries given a treat + Under the lindens? + + I pondered long and could not tell + What dainty pleased them both so well: + Bees! bees! was it your hydromel + Under the lindens? + + [Decoration] + + + _SIXTEEN._ + + In Clementina's artless mien + Lucilla asks me what I see,-- + And are the roses of sixteen + Enough for me? + + Lucilla asks, if that be all, + Have I not culled as sweet before? + Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall + I still deplore. + + I now behold another scene, + Where Pleasure beams with heaven's own light,-- + More pure, more constant, more serene, + And not less bright: + + Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose, + Whose chain of flowers no force can sever, + And Modesty, who, when she goes, + Is gone forever! + + + _IANTHE._ + + Thank Heaven, Ianthe, once again + Our hands and ardent lips shall meet, + And Pleasure, to assert his reign, + Scatter ten thousand kisses sweet: + Then cease repeating while you mourn, + "I wonder when he will return." + + Ah wherefore should you so admire + The flowing words that fill my song, + Why call them artless, yet require + "Some promise from that tuneful tongue?" + I doubt if heaven itself could part + A tuneful tongue and tender heart. + + [Decoration] + + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + + _ONE LOVELY NAME._ + + One lovely name adorns my song, + And, dwelling in the heart, + For ever falters at the tongue, + And trembles to depart. + + + _FORSAKEN._ + + Mother, I can not mind my wheel; + My fingers ache, my lips are dry; + Oh! if you felt the pain I feel! + But oh, who ever felt as I! + No longer could I doubt him true, + All other men may use deceit; + He always said my eyes were blue, + And often swore my lips were sweet. + + + + + [Decoration] + + FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON. + + 1821-1895. + + + _A GARDEN LYRIC._ + + The flow of life is yet a rill + That laughs, and leaps, and glistens; + And still the woodland rings, and still + The old Damoetas listens. + + We have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery croft, + We have met under wintry skies; + Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft + Is the light in her gentle eyes; + It is bliss in the silent woods, among + Gay crowds, or in any place + To hear her voice, to gaze on her young + Confiding face. + + For ever may roses divinely blow, + And wine-dark pansies charm + By the prim box path where I felt the glow + Of her dimpled, trusting arm, + And the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiled + A smile as pure as her pearls; + The breeze was in love with the darling Child, + As it moved her curls. + + She showed me her ferns and woodbine-sprays, + Foxglove and jasmine stars, + A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze + Of red in the celadon jars: + And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, + And roses of bountiful June-- + Oh, who would think their summer spells + Could die so soon! + + For a glad song came from the milking shed, + On a wind of the summer south, + And the green was golden above her head, + And a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth; + Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt; + And the wings of Time were fleet + As I gazed; and neither spoke, for we felt + Life was so sweet! + + And the odorous limes were dim above + As we leant on a drooping bough; + And the darkling air was a breath of love, + And a witching thrush sang "Now!" + For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew + As we listen'd and sigh'd, and leant; + That day was the sweetest day--and we knew + What the sweetness meant. + + [Decoration] + + + _THE CUCKOO._ + + We heard it calling, clear and low, + That tender April morn; we stood + And listened in the quiet wood, + We heard it, ay, long years ago. + + It came, and with a strange, sweet cry, + A friend, but from a far-off land; + We stood and listened, hand in hand, + And heart to heart, my Love and I. + + In dreamland then we found our joy, + And so it seemed as 't were the Bird + That Helen in old times had heard + At noon beneath the oaks of Troy. + + O time far off, and yet so near! + It came to her in that hush'd grove, + It warbled while the wooing throve, + It sang the song she loved to hear. + + And now I hear its voice again, + And still its message is of peace, + It sings of love that will not cease-- + For me it never sings in vain. + + [Decoration] + + + _GERTRUDE'S NECKLACE._ + + As Gertrude skipt from babe to girl, + Her Necklace lengthen'd, pearl by pearl; + Year after year it grew, and grew, + For every birthday gave her two. + Her neck is lovely,--soft and fair, + And now her Necklace glimmers there. + + So cradled, let it fall and rise, + And all her graces symbolize. + Perchance this pearl, without a speck, + Once was as warm on Sappho's neck; + Where are the happy, twilight pearls + That braided Beatrice's curls? + + Is Gerty loved? Is Gerty loth? + Or, if she 's either, is she both? + She 's fancy free, but sweeter far + Than many plighted maidens are: + Will Gerty smile us all away, + And still be Gerty? Who can say? + + But let her wear her Precious Toy, + And I 'll rejoice to see her joy: + Her bauble 's only one degree + Less frail, less fugitive than we, + For time, ere long, will snap the skein, + And scatter all her Pearls again. + + [Decoration] + + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + + + + [Decoration] + + SAMUEL LOVER. + + 1797-1868. + + + _THE ANGEL'S WHISPER._[C] + + A baby was sleeping, + Its mother was weeping, + For the husband was far on the wild raging Sea; + And the tempest was swelling + Round the fisherman's dwelling; + And she cried, "Dermot darling, oh come back to me!" + + Her beads while she numbered, + The baby still slumbered, + And smiled in her face as she bended her knee; + "O blest be that warning, + My child thy sleep adorning, + For I know that the angels are whispering with thee! + + "And while they are keeping + Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, + Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! + And say thou wouldst rather + They 'd watch o'er thy father; + For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!" + + The dawn of the morning + Saw Dermot returning, + And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; + And closely caressing + Her child, with a blessing, + Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee!" + + [Footnote C: A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland + that when a child smiles in its sleep it is "talking with angels."] + + + _WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE?_ + + I. + + "What will you do, love, when I am going + With white sail flowing, + The seas beyond-- + What will you do, love, when waves divide us, + And friends may chide us + For being fond?" + "Tho' waves divide us--and friends be chiding, + In faith abiding, + I 'll still be true! + And I 'll pray for thee on the stormy ocean, + In deep devotion-- + That 's what I 'll do!" + + II. + + "What would you do, love, if distant tidings + Thy fond confidings + Should undermine?-- + And I abiding 'neath sultry skies, + Should think other eyes + Were as bright as thine?" + "Oh, name it not:--tho' guilt and shame + Were on thy name + I 'd still be true: + But that heart of thine--should another share it-- + I could not bear it! + What would I do?" + + III. + + "What would you do, love, when home returning + With hopes high burning, + With wealth for you, + If my bark, which bounded o'er foreign foam, + Should be lost near home-- + Ah! what would you do?"-- + "So thou wert spared--I 'd bless the morrow, + In want and sorrow, + That left me you; + And I 'd welcome thee from the wasting billow, + This heart thy pillow-- + That 's what I 'd do!" + + + + + [Decoration] + + CHARLES MACKAY. + + 1814-1889. + + + _I LOVE MY LOVE._ + + I. + + What is the meaning of the song + That rings so clear and loud, + Thou nightingale amid the copse-- + Thou lark above the cloud? + What says the song, thou joyous thrush, + Up in the walnut-tree? + "I love my Love, because I know + My Love loves me." + + II. + + What is the meaning of thy thought, + O maiden fair and young? + There is such pleasure in thine eyes, + Such music on thy tongue; + There is such glory on thy face-- + What can the meaning be? + "I love my Love, because I know + My Love loves me." + + III. + + O happy words! at Beauty's feet + We sing them ere our prime; + And when the early summers pass, + And Care comes on with Time, + Still be it ours, in Care's despite, + To join the chorus free-- + "I love my Love, because I know + My Love loves me." + + + _O YE TEARS!_ + + O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow, + Ye are welcome to my heart,--thawing, thawing, like the snow; + I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snow-drop spring, + And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing. + + O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run; + Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun. + The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall, + And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all. + + O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek, + I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak. + Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free, + And know that I am human by the light of sympathy. + + O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain: + The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again; + Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb's burning sand, + It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land. + + There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart, + And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart. + Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago-- + O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow! + + + + + [Decoration] + + FRANCIS MAHONEY. + + 1805-1866. + + + _THE BELLS OF SHANDON._ + + Sabbata pango; + Funera plango; + Solemnia clango. + + --_Inscription on an old bell._ + + With deep affection + And recollection + I often think of + Those Shandon bells, + Whose sounds so wild would, + In the days of childhood, + Fling round my cradle + Their magic spells. + + On this I ponder + Where'er I wander, + And thus grow fonder, + Sweet Cork, of thee,-- + With thy bells of Shandon, + That sound so grand on + The pleasant waters + Of the river Lee. + + I 've heard bells chiming + Full many a clime in, + Tolling sublime in + Cathedral shrine, + While at a glibe rate + Brass tongues would vibrate; + But all their music + Spoke naught like thine. + + For memory, dwelling + On each proud swelling + Of thy belfry, knelling + Its bold notes free, + Made the bells of Shandon + Sound far more grand on + The pleasant waters + Of the river Lee. + + I 've heard bells tolling + Old Adrian's Mole in, + Their thunder rolling + From the Vatican,-- + And cymbals glorious + Swinging uproarious + In the gorgeous turrets + Of Notre Dame; + + But thy sounds were sweeter + Than the dome of Peter + Flings o'er the Tiber, + Pealing solemnly. + Oh! the bells of Shandon + Sound far more grand on + The pleasant waters + Of the river Lee. + + There 's a bell in Moscow; + While on tower and kiosk O + In St. Sophia + The Turkman gets, + And loud in air + Calls men to prayer, + From the tapering summit + Of tall minarets. + + Such empty phantom + I freely grant them; + But there 's an anthem + More dear to me,-- + 'T is the bells of Shandon, + That sound so grand on + The pleasant waters + Of the river Lee. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + GERALD MASSEY. + + 1828. + + + _SONG._ + + All glorious as the Rainbow's birth, + She came in Spring-tide's golden hours; + When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth, + And May was crowned with buds and flowers! + The mounting devil at my heart + Clomb faintlier as my life did win + The charmed heaven, she wrought apart, + To wake its slumbering Angel in! + With radiant mien she trod serene, + And passed me smiling by! + O! who that looked could chance but love? + Not I, sweet soul, not I. + + The dewy eyelids of the Dawn + Ne'er oped such heaven as hers can show: + It seemed her dear eyes might have shone + As jewels in some starry brow. + Her face flashed glory like a shrine, + Or lily-bell with sunburst bright; + Where came and went love-thoughts divine, + As low winds walk the leaves in light: + She wore her beauty with the grace + Of Summer's star-clad sky; + O! who that looked could help but love? + Not I, sweet soul, not I. + + Her budding breasts like fragrant fruit + Of love were ripening to be pressed: + Her voice, that shook my heart's red root, + Yet might not break a babe's soft rest! + More liquid than the running brooks, + More vernal than the voice of Spring, + When Nightingales are in their nooks, + And all the leafy thickets ring. + The love she coyly hid at heart + Was shyly conscious in her eye; + O! who that looked could help but love? + Not I, sweet soul, not I. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. + + 1844-1881. + + + _A LOVE SYMPHONY._ + + Along the garden ways just now + I heard the flowers speak; + The white rose told me of your brow, + The red rose of your cheek; + The lily of your bended head, + The bindweed of your hair: + Each looked its loveliest and said + You were more fair. + + I went into the wood anon, + And heard the wild birds sing, + How sweet you were; they warbled on, + Piped, trilled the self-same thing. + Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause, + The burden did repeat, + And still began again because + You were more sweet. + + And then I went down to the sea, + And heard it murmuring too, + Part of an ancient mystery, + All made of me and you. + How many a thousand years ago + I loved, and you were sweet-- + Longer I could not stay, and so + I fled back to your feet. + + + _I MADE ANOTHER GARDEN._ + + I made another garden, yea, + For my new love; + I left the dead rose where it lay, + And set the new above. + Why did the summer not begin? + Why did my heart not haste? + My old love came and walked therein, + And laid the garden waste. + + She entered with her weary smile, + Just as of old; + She looked around a little while, + And shivered at the cold. + Her passing touch was death to all, + Her passing look a blight; + She made the white rose-petals fall, + And turned the red rose white. + + Her pale robe, clinging to the grass, + Seemed like a snake + That bit the grass and ground, alas! + And a sad trail did make. + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + She went up slowly to the gate; + And there, just as of yore, + She turned back at the last to wait, + And say farewell once more. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. + + 1825-1864. + + + _THE LOST CHORD._ + + Seated one day at the Organ, + I was weary and ill at ease, + And my fingers wandered idly + Over the noisy keys. + + I do not know what I was playing, + Or what I was dreaming then; + But I struck one chord of music, + Like the sound of a great Amen. + + It flooded the crimson twilight + Like the close of an Angel's Psalm, + And it lay on my fevered spirit + With a touch of infinite calm. + + It quieted pain and sorrow, + Like love overcoming strife; + It seemed the harmonious echo + From our discordant Life. + + It linked all perplexed meanings + Into one perfect peace, + And trembled away into silence + As if it were loth to cease. + + I have sought, but I seek it vainly, + That one lost chord divine, + Which came from the soul of the Organ, + And entered into mine. + + It may be that Death's bright angel + Will speak in that chord again,-- + It may be that only in Heaven + I shall hear that grand Amen. + + + _SENT TO HEAVEN._ + + I had a Message to send her, + To her whom my soul loved best; + But I had my task to finish, + And she was gone home to rest. + + To rest in the far bright heaven; + Oh, so far away from here, + It was vain to speak to my darling, + For I knew she could not hear! + + I had a message to send her, + So tender, and true, and sweet, + I longed for an Angel to bear it, + And lay it down at her feet. + + I placed it, one summer evening, + On a Cloudlet's fleecy breast; + But it faded in golden splendour, + And died in the crimson west. + + I gave it the Lark next morning, + And I watched it soar and soar; + But its pinions grew faint and weary, + And it fluttered to earth once more. + + To the heart of a Rose I told it; + And the perfume, sweet and rare, + Growing faint on the blue bright ether, + Was lost in the balmy air. + + I laid it upon a Censer, + And I saw the incense rise; + But its clouds of rolling silver + Could not reach the far blue skies. + + I cried, in my passionate longing:-- + "Has the earth no Angel-friend + Who will carry my love the message + That my heart desires to send?" + + Then I heard a strain of music, + So mighty, so pure, so clear, + That my very sorrow was silent, + And my heart stood still to hear. + + And I felt, in my soul's deep yearning, + At last the sure answer stir:-- + "The music will go up to Heaven, + And carry my thought to her." + + It rose in harmonious rushing + Of mingled voices and strings, + And I tenderly laid my message + On the Music's outspread wings. + + I heard it float farther and farther, + In sound more perfect than speech; + Farther than sight can follow, + Farther than soul can reach. + + And I know that at last my message + Has passed through the golden gate: + So my heart is no longer restless, + And I am content to wait. + + + + + [Decoration] + + B. W. PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL). + + 1787-1874. + + + _THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE._ + + SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. + + How many Summers, love, + Have I been thine? + How many days, thou dove, + Hast thou been mine? + Time, like the winged wind + When 't bends the flowers, + Hath left no mark behind, + To count the hours! + + Some weight of thought, though loth, + On thee he leaves; + Some lines of care round both + Perhaps he weaves; + Some fears,--a soft regret + For joys scarce known; + Sweet looks we half forget;-- + All else is flown! + + Ah! with what thankless heart + I mourn and sing! + Look, where our children start, + Like sudden Spring! + With tongues all sweet and low, + Like a pleasant rhyme, + They tell how much I owe + To thee and Time! + + [Decoration] + + + _A PETITION TO TIME._ + + 1831. + + Touch us gently, Time! + Let us glide adown thy stream + Gently,--as we sometimes glide + Through a quiet dream! + Humble voyagers are We, + Husband, wife, and children three-- + (One is lost,--an angel, fled + To the azure overhead!) + + Touch us gently, Time! + We 've not proud nor soaring wings: + _Our_ ambition, _our_ content + Lies in simple things. + Humble voyagers are We, + O'er Life's dim unsounded sea, + Seeking only some calm clime:-- + Touch us _gently_, gentle Time! + + + _A BACCHANALIAN SONG._ + + SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS. + + Sing!--Who sings + To her who weareth a hundred rings? + Ah, who is this lady fine? + The VINE, boys, the VINE! + The mother of mighty Wine. + A roamer is she + O'er wall and tree, + And sometimes very good company. + + Drink!--Who drinks + To her who blusheth and never thinks? + Ah, who is this maid of thine? + The GRAPE, boys, the GRAPE! + O, never let her escape + Until she be turned to Wine! + For better is she + Than vine can be, + And very, very good company! + + Dream!--Who dreams + Of the God that governs a thousand streams? + Ah, who is this Spirit fine? + 'T is WINE, boys, 't is WINE! + God Bacchus, a friend of mine. + O better is he + Than grape or tree, + And the best of all good company. + + [Decoration] + + + _SHE WAS NOT FAIR NOR FULL OF GRACE._ + + She was not fair, nor full of grace, + Nor crowned with thought or aught beside; + No wealth had she, of mind or face, + To win our love, or raise our pride: + No lover's thought her cheek did touch; + No poet's dream was 'round her thrown; + And yet we miss her--ah, too much, + Now--she hath flown! + + We miss her when the morning calls, + As one that mingled in our mirth; + We miss her when the evening falls,-- + A trifle wanted on the earth! + Some fancy small or subtle thought + Is checked ere to its blossom grown; + Some chain is broken that we wrought, + Now--she hath flown! + + No solid good, nor hope defined, + Is marred now she hath sunk in night; + And yet the strong immortal Mind + Is stopped in its triumphant flight! + Stern friend, what power is in a tear, + What strength in one poor thought alone, + When all we know is--"She was here," + And--"She hath flown!" + + [Decoration] + + + _THE SEA-KING._ + + SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. + + Come sing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King, + And the fame that now hangs o'er him, + Who once did sweep o'er the vanquish'd deep, + And drove the world before him! + His deck was a throne, on the ocean lone, + And the sea was his park of pleasure, + Where he scattered in fear the human deer, + And rested,--when he had leisure! + Come,--shout and sing + Of the great Sea-King, + And ride in the track he rode in! + He sits at the head + Of the mighty dead, + On the red right hand of Odin! + + He sprang, from birth, like a God on earth, + And soared on his victor pinions, + And he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee, + When they gaze on their blue dominions. + His whole earth life was a conquering strife, + And he lived till his beard grew hoary, + And he died at last, by his blood-red mast, + And now--he is lost in glory! + So,--shout and sing, &c. + + [Decoration] + + + _A SERENADE._ + + SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. + + Awake!--The starry midnight Hour + Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight: + In its own sweetness sleeps the flower; + And the doves lie hushed in deep delight! + Awake! Awake! + Look forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake! + + Awake!--Soft dews will soon arise + From daisied mead, and thorny brake; + Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, + And like the tender morning break! + Awake! Awake! + Dawn forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake! + + Awake!--Within the musk-rose bower + I watch, pale flower of love, for thee; + Ah, come, and shew the starry Hour + What wealth of love thou hid'st from me! + Awake! Awake! + Shew all thy love, for Love's sweet sake! + + Awake!--Ne'er heed, though listening Night + Steal music from thy silver voice: + Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright, + And bid the world and me rejoice! + Awake! Awake! + She comes,--at last, for Love's sweet sake! + + [Decoration] + + + _KING DEATH._ + + SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. + + King Death was a rare old fellow! + He sate where no sun could shine; + And he lifted his hand so yellow, + And poured out his coal-black wine. + Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine! + + There came to him many a Maiden, + Whose eyes had forgot to shine; + And Widows, with grief o'erladen, + For a draught of his sleepy wine. + Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine! + + The Scholar left all his learning; + The Poet his fancied woes; + And the Beauty her bloom returning, + As the beads of the black wine rose. + Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine! + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + All came to the royal old fellow, + Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, + As he gave them his hand so yellow, + And pledged them in Death's black wine. + Hurrah!--Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine! + + [Decoration] + + + _SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL._ + + Sit down, sad soul, and count + The moments flying: + Come,--tell the sweet amount + That 's lost by sighing! + How many smiles?--a score? + Then laugh, and count no more; + For day is dying! + + Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, + And no more measure + The flight of Time, nor weep + The loss of leisure; + But here, by this lone stream, + Lie down with us, and dream + Of starry treasure! + + We dream: do thou the same: + We love--for ever: + We laugh; yet few we shame, + The gentle, never. + Stay, then, till Sorrow dies; + _Then_--hope and happy skies + Are thine for ever! + + [Decoration] + + + _A DRINKING SONG._ + + Drink, and fill the night with mirth! + Let us have a mighty measure, + Till we quite forget the earth, + And soar into the world of pleasure. + Drink, and let a health go round, + ('T is the drinker's noble duty,) + To the eyes that shine and wound, + To the mouths that bud in beauty! + + Here 's to Helen! Why, ah! why + Doth she fly from my pursuing? + Here 's to Marian, cold and shy! + May she warm before thy wooing! + Here 's to Janet! I 've been e'er, + Boy and man, her staunch defender, + Always sworn that she was fair, + Always _known_ that she was tender! + + Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high! + Let them with the champagne tremble, + Like the loose wrack in the sky, + When the four wild winds assemble! + Here 's to all the love on earth, + (Love, the young man's, wise man's treasure!) + Drink, and fill your throats with mirth! + Drink, and drown the world in pleasure! + + [Decoration] + + + _PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL?_ + + Peace! what can tears avail? + She lies all dumb and pale, + And from her eye, + The spirit of lovely life is fading, + And she must die! + Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding? + Reply, reply! + + Hath she not dwelt too long + 'Midst pain, and grief, and wrong? + Then, why not die? + Why suffer again her doom of sorrow, + And hopeless lie? + Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow? + Reply, reply! + + Death! Take her to thine arms, + In all her stainless charms, + And with her fly + To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness, + The Angels lie! + Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness? + Reply,--reply! + + [Decoration] + + + _THE SEA._ + + SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. + + The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! + The blue, the fresh, the ever free! + Without a mark, without a bound, + It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round; + It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; + Or like a cradled creature lies. + + I 'm on the Sea! I 'm on the Sea! + I am where I would ever be; + With the blue above, and the blue below, + And silence wheresoe'er I go; + If a storm should come and awake the deep, + What matter? _I_ shall ride and sleep. + + I love (oh! _how_ I love) to ride + On the fierce foaming bursting tide, + When every mad wave drowns the moon, + Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, + And tells how goeth the world below, + And why the south-west blasts do blow. + + I never was on the dull tame shore, + But I loved the great Sea more and more, + And backwards flew to her billowy breast, + Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; + And a mother she _was_, and _is_ to me; + For I was born on the open Sea! + + The waves were white, and red the morn, + In the noisy hour when I was born; + And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, + And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; + And never was heard such an outcry wild + As welcomed to life the Ocean-child! + + I 've lived since then, in calm and strife, + Full fifty summers a sailor's life, + With wealth to spend and a power to range, + But never have sought, nor sighed for change; + And Death, whenever he come to me, + Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea! + + + + + [Decoration] + + CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. + + 1830-1895. + + + _SONG._ + + When I am dead, my dearest, + Sing no sad songs for me; + Plant thou no roses at my head, + Nor shady cypress-tree: + Be the green grass above me + With showers and dewdrops wet; + And if thou wilt, remember, + And if thou wilt, forget. + + I shall not see the shadows, + I shall not feel the rain; + I shall not hear the nightingale + Sing on, as if in pain: + And dreaming through the twilight + That doth not rise nor set, + Haply I may remember, + And haply may forget. + + [Decoration] + + + _SONG._ + + O roses for the flush of youth, + And laurel for the perfect prime; + But pluck an ivy branch for me + Grown old before my time. + + O violets for the grave of youth, + And bay for those dead in their prime; + Give me the withered leaves I chose + Before in the old time. + + [Decoration] + + + _SONG._ + + Two doves upon the selfsame branch, + Two lilies on a single stem, + Two butterflies upon one flower:-- + O happy they who look on them. + + Who look upon them hand in hand + Flushed in the rosy summer light; + Who look upon them hand in hand + And never give a thought to night. + + [Decoration] + + + _THREE SEASONS._ + + "A cup for hope!" she said, + In springtime ere the bloom was old: + The crimson wine was poor and cold + By her mouth's richer red. + + "A cup for love!" how low, + How soft the words; and all the while + Her blush was rippling with a smile + Like summer after snow. + + "A cup for memory!" + Cold cup that one must drain alone: + While autumn winds are up and moan + Across the barren sea. + + Hope, memory, love: + Hope for fair morn, and love for day, + And memory for the evening gray + And solitary dove. + + + + + [Decoration] + + DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. + + 1828-1882. + + + _A LITTLE WHILE._ + + A little while a little love + The hour yet bears for thee and me + Who have not drawn the veil to see + If still our heaven be lit above. + Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, + Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone; + And I have heard the night-wind cry + And deemed its speech mine own. + + A little while a little love + The scattering autumn hoards for us + Whose bower is not yet ruinous + Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. + Only across the shaken boughs + We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, + And deep in both our hearts they rouse + One wail for thee and me. + + A little while a little love + May yet be ours who have not said + The word it makes our eyes afraid + To know that each is thinking of. + Not yet the end: be our lips dumb + In smiles a little season yet: + I 'll tell thee, when the end is come, + How we may best forget. + + [Decoration] + + + _SUDDEN LIGHT._ + + I have been here before, + But when or how I cannot tell: + I know the grass beyond the door, + The sweet keen smell, + The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. + + You have been mine before,-- + How long ago I may not know: + But just when at that swallow's soar + Your neck turned so, + Some veil did fall,--I knew it all of yore. + + Has this been thus before? + And shall not thus time's eddying flight + Still with our lives our loves restore + In death's despite, + And day and night yield one delight once more? + + + _THREE SHADOWS._ + + I looked and saw your eyes + In the shadow of your hair, + As a traveller sees the stream + In the shadow of the wood; + And I said, "My faint heart sighs, + Ah me! to linger there, + To drink deep and to dream + In that sweet solitude." + + I looked and saw your heart + In the shadow of your eyes, + As a seeker sees the gold + In the shadow of the stream; + And I said, "Ah, me! what art + Should win the immortal prize, + Whose want must make life cold + And Heaven a hollow dream?" + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + I looked and saw your love + In the shadow of your heart, + As a diver sees the pearl + In the shadow of the sea; + And I murmured, not above + My breath, but all apart,-- + "Ah! you can love, true girl, + And is your love for me?" + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. + + 1812-1890. + + + _PARTING AND MEETING AGAIN._ + + Last time I parted from my Dear + The linnet sang from the briar-bush, + The throstle from the dell; + The stream too carolled full and clear, + It was the spring-time of the year, + And both the linnet and the thrush + I love them well + Since last I parted from my Dear. + + But when he came again to me + The barley rustled high and low, + Linnet and thrush were still; + Yellowed the apple on the tree, + 'T was autumn merry as it could be, + What time the white ships come and go + Under the hill; + They brought him back again to me, + Brought him safely o'er the sea. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + JOSEPH SKIPSEY. + + 1832 + + + _A MERRY BEE._ + + A golden bee a-cometh + O'er the mere, glassy mere, + And a merry tale he hummeth + In my ear. + + How he seized and kist a blossom, + From its tree, thorny tree, + Plucked and placed in Annie's bosom, + Hums the bee! + + + _THE SONGSTRESS._ + + Back flies my soul to other years, + When thou that charming lay repeatest, + When smiles were only chased by tears, + Yet sweeter far than smiles the sweetest. + + Thy music ends, and where are they? + Those golden times by memory cherished? + O, Syren, sing no more that lay, + Or sing till I like them have perished! + + [Decoration] + + + _THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE._ + + The Violet invited my kiss,-- + I kissed it and called it my bride; + "Was ever one slighted like this?" + Sighed the Rose as it stood by my side. + + My heart ever open to grief, + To comfort the fair one I turned; + "Of fickle ones thou art the chief!" + Frowned the Violet, and pouted and mourned. + + Then, to end all disputes, I entwined + The love-stricken blossoms in one; + But that instant their beauty declined, + And I wept for the deed I had done! + + + + + [Decoration] + + J. ASHBY STERRY. + + + _REGRETS._ + + I. + + O for the look of those pure grey eyes-- + Seeming to plead and speak-- + The parted lips and the deep-drawn sighs, + The blush on the kissen cheek! + + II. + + O for the tangle of soft brown hair, + Lazily blown by the breeze; + The fleeting hours unshadowed by care, + Shaded by tremulous trees! + + III. + + O for the dream of those sunny days, + With their bright unbroken spell, + And the thrilling sweet untutored praise-- + From the lips once loved so well! + + IV. + + O for the feeling of days agone, + The simple faith and the truth, + The spring of time and life's rosy dawn-- + O for the love and the youth! + + [Decoration] + + + _DAISY'S DIMPLES._ + + I. + + Little dimples so sweet and soft, + Love the cheek of my love: + The mark of Cupid's dainty hand, + Before he wore a glove. + + II. + + Laughing dimples of tender love + Smile on my darling's cheek; + Sweet hallowed spots where kisses lurk, + And play at hide and seek. + + III. + + Fain would I hide my kisses there + At morning's rosy light, + To come and seek them back again + In silver hush of night. + + + _A LOVER'S LULLABY._ + + I. + + Mirror your sweet eyes in mine, love, + See how they glitter and shine! + Quick fly such moments divine, love, + Link your lithe fingers in mine! + + II. + + Lay your soft cheek against mine, love, + Pillow your head on my breast; + While your brown locks I entwine, love, + Pout your red lips when they 're prest! + + III. + + Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love; + Sorrow and sighing resign: + Life is too short to repine, love, + Link your fair future in mine! + + + + + [Decoration] + + ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. + + 1837. + + + _A MATCH._ + + If love were what the rose is, + And I were like the leaf, + Our lives would grow together + In sad or singing weather, + Blown fields or flowerful closes, + Green pleasure or grey grief; + If love were what the rose is, + And I were like the leaf. + + If I were what the words are, + And love were like the tune, + With double sound or single + Delight our lips would mingle, + With kisses glad as birds are + That get sweet rain at noon; + If I were what the words are, + And love were like the tune. + + If you were life, my darling, + And I your love were death, + We 'd shine and snow together + Ere March made sweet the weather + With daffodil and starling + And hours of fruitful breath; + If you were life, my darling, + And I your love were death. + + If you were thrall to sorrow, + And I were page to joy, + We 'd play for lives and seasons + With loving looks and treasons + And tears of night and morrow + And laughs of maid and boy; + If you were thrall to sorrow, + And I were page to joy. + + If you were April's lady, + And I were lord in May, + We 'd throw with leaves for hours + And draw for days with flowers, + Till day like night were shady + And night were bright like day; + If you were April's lady, + And I were lord in May. + + If you were queen of pleasure, + And I were king of pain, + We 'd hunt down love together, + Pluck out his flying-feather, + And teach his feet a measure, + And find his mouth a rein; + If you were queen of pleasure, + And I were king of pain. + + + _RONDEL._ + + Kissing her hair I sat against her feet, + Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; + Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, + Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; + With her own tresses bound and found her fair, + Kissing her hair. + + Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, + Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; + What pain could get between my face and hers? + What new sweet thing would love not relish worse? + Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, + Kissing her hair? + + [Decoration] + + + _SONG._ + + FROM "FELISE." + + O lips that mine have grown into + Like April's kissing May, + O fervent eyelids letting through + Those eyes the greenest of things blue, + The bluest of things gray, + + If you were I and I were you, + How could I love you, say? + How could the roseleaf love the rue, + The day love nightfall and her dew, + Though night may love the day? + + + + + [Decoration] + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + 1809-1892. + + + _THE BUGLE SONG._ + + FROM "THE PRINCESS." + + The splendour falls on castle walls + And snowy summits old in story: + The long light shakes across the lakes, + And the wild cataract leaps in glory. + Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, + Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. + + O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, + And thinner, clearer, farther going! + O sweet and far from cliff and scar + The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! + Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: + Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. + + O love, they die in yon rich sky, + They faint on hill or field or river: + Our echoes roll from soul to soul, + And grow for ever and for ever. + Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, + And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. + + [Decoration] + + + _BREAK, BREAK, BREAK._ + + Break, break, break, + On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! + And I would that my tongue could utter + The thoughts that arise in me. + + O well for the fisherman's boy, + That he shouts with his sister at play! + O well for the sailor lad, + That he sings in his boat on the bay! + + And the stately ships go on + To their haven under the hill; + But O for the touch of a vanished hand, + And the sound of a voice that is still! + + Break, break, break, + At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! + But the tender grace of a day that is dead + Will never come back to me. + + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + + _TEARS, IDLE TEARS._ + + FROM "THE PRINCESS." + + Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, + Tears from the depth of some divine despair + Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, + In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, + And thinking of the days that are no more. + + Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, + That brings our friends up from the underworld, + Sad as the last which reddens over one + That sinks with all we love below the verge; + So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. + + Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns + The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds + To dying ears, when unto dying eyes + The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; + So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. + + Dear as remembered kisses after death, + And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned + On lips that are for others; deep as love, + Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; + O Death in Life, the days that are no more. + + [Decoration] + + + _SWEET AND LOW._ + + FROM "THE PRINCESS." + + Sweet and low, sweet and low, + Wind of the western sea, + Low, low, breathe and blow, + Wind of the western sea! + Over the rolling waters go, + Come from the dying moon, and blow, + Blow him again to me; + While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. + + Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, + Father will come to thee soon; + Rest, rest, on mother's breast, + Father will come to thee soon; + Father will come to his babe in the nest, + Silver sails all out of the west + Under the silver moon: + Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. + + + _TURN, FORTUNE, TURN THY WHEEL._ + + FROM "THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT." + + Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; + Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud; + Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. + + Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; + With that wild wheel we go not up or down; + Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. + + Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; + Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; + For man is man and master of his fate. + + Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; + Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; + Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. + + + _VIVIEN'S SONG._ + + FROM "MERLIN AND VIVIEN." + + In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, + Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: + Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. + + It is the little rift within the lute, + That by and by will make the music mute, + And ever widening slowly silence all. + + The little rift within the lover's lute + Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, + That rotting inward slowly moulders all. + + It is not worth the keeping: let it go: + But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. + And trust me not at all or all in all. + + + + + [Decoration] + + WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. + + 1811-1863. + + + _AT THE CHURCH GATE._ + + FROM "PENDENNIS." + + Although I enter not, + Yet round about the spot + Ofttimes I hover: + And near the sacred gate, + With longing eyes I wait, + Expectant of her. + + The Minster bell tolls out + Above the city's rout, + And noise and humming: + They 've hushed the Minster bell: + The organ 'gins to swell: + She 's coming, she 's coming! + + My lady comes at last, + Timid, and stepping fast, + And hastening hither, + With modest eyes downcast: + She comes--she 's here--she 's past-- + May heaven go with her! + + Kneel, undisturbed, fair saint! + Pour out your praise or plaint + Meekly and duly; + I will not enter there, + To sully your pure prayer + With thoughts unruly. + + But suffer me to pace + Round the forbidden place, + Lingering a minute; + Like outcast spirits who wait + And see through heaven's gate + Angels within it. + + + _THE MAHOGANY TREE._ + + Christmas is here; + Winds whistle shrill, + Icy and chill, + Little care we: + Little we fear + Weather without + Sheltered about + The Mahogany Tree. + + Once on the boughs + Birds of rare plume + Sang, in its bloom; + Night-birds are we: + Here we carouse, + Singing like them, + Perched round the stem + Of the jolly old tree. + + Here let us sport, + Boys, as we sit; + Laughter and wit + Flashing so free. + Life is but short-- + When we are gone, + Let them sing on, + Round the old tree. + + Evenings we knew, + Happy as this; + Faces we miss, + Pleasant to see. + Kind hearts and true, + Gentle and just, + Peace to your dust! + We sing round the tree. + + Care, like a dun, + Lurks at the gate: + Let the dog wait; + Happy we 'll be! + Drink, every one; + Pile up the coals, + Fill the red bowls, + Round the old tree. + + Drain we the cup.-- + Friend, art afraid? + Spirits are laid + In the Red Sea. + Mantle it up; + Empty it yet; + Let us forget, + Round the old tree. + + Sorrows, begone! + Life and its ills, + Duns and their bills, + Bid we to flee. + Come with the dawn, + Blue-devil sprite, + Leave us to-night, + Round the old tree. + + + + + [Decoration] + + GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY. + + 1828-1876. + + + _DAYRISE AND SUNSET._ + + When Spring casts all her swallows forth + Into the blue and lambent air, + When lilacs toss their purple plumes + And every cherry-tree grows fair,-- + Through fields with morning tints a-glow + I take my rod and singing go. + + Where lilies float on broad green leaves + Below the ripples of the mill, + When the white moth is hovering + In the dim sky so hushed and still, + I watch beneath the pollard ash + The greedy trout leap up and splash. + + Or down where golden water flowers + Are wading in the shallow tide, + While still the dusk is tinged with rose + Like a brown cheek o'erflushed with pride-- + I throw the crafty fly and wait; + Watching the big trout eye the bait. + + It is the lover's twilight-time, + And there 's a magic in the hour, + But I forget the sweets of love + And all love's tyranny and power, + And with my feather-hidden steel + Sigh but to fill my woven creel. + + Then upward darkling through the copse + I push my eager homeward way, + Through glades of drowsy violets + That never see the golden day. + Yes! while the night comes soft and slow + I take my rod and singing go. + + + [Illustration: Full-page Plate] + + + _THE THREE TROOPERS._ + + DURING THE PROTECTORATE. + + Into the Devil tavern + Three booted troopers strode, + From spur to feather spotted and splashed + With the mud of a winter road. + In each of their cups they dropped a crust, + And stared at the guests with a frown; + Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast, + "God send this Crum-well-down!" + + A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks, + Their sword blades were still wet; + There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff, + As the table they overset. + Then into their cups they stirred the crusts, + And cursed old London town; + They waved their swords, and drank with a stamp, + "God send this Crum-well-down!" + + The 'prentice dropped his can of beer, + The host turned pale as a clout; + The ruby nose of the toping squires + Grew white at the wild men's shout. + Then into their cups they flung their crusts, + And shewed their teeth with a frown; + They flashed their swords as they gave the toast, + "God send this Crum-well-down!" + + The gambler dropped his dog's-ear'd cards, + The waiting-women screamed, + As the light of the fire, like stains of blood, + On the wild men's sabres gleamed. + Then into their cups they splashed their crusts, + And cursed the fool of a town, + And leapt on the table, and roared a toast, + "God send this Crum-well-down!" + + Till on a sudden fire-bells rang, + And the troopers sprang to horse; + The eldest muttered between his teeth, + Hot curses--deep and coarse. + In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts, + And cried as they spurred through the town, + With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked, + "God send this Crum-well-down!" + + Away they dashed through Temple Bar, + Their red cloaks flowing free, + Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone-- + None liked to touch the three. + The silver cups that held the crusts + They flung to the startled town, + Shouting again, with a blaze of swords, + "God send this Crum-well-down!" + + [Decoration] + + + _THE CUCKOO._ + + When a warm and scented steam + Rises from the flowering earth; + When the green leaves are all still, + And the song birds cease their mirth; + In the silence before rain + Comes the cuckoo back again. + + When the Spring is all but gone-- + Tearful April, laughing May-- + When a hush comes on the woods, + And the sunbeams cease to play; + In the silence before rain + Comes the cuckoo back again. + + [Decoration] + + * * * * * + * * * * + * * * * * + +Errors and Inconsistencies: + + FROM "SYLVIA": _Act IV. Scene I_. + [_should be "Scene i"_] + I watched the long, long, shade, [_all commas as printed_] + _THE LONG WHITE SEAM._ [_final . missing or invisible_] + [Locker-Lampson] _THE CUCKOO._ [_printed , for ._] + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Victorian Songs, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VICTORIAN SONGS *** + +***** This file should be named 26715.txt or 26715.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/7/1/26715/ + +Produced by Louise Hope, David Starner and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. 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