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THE American publishers of Mr. Procter's Poems have taken the liberty to retain in this edition the forty Songs which the author has omitted in the latest English copy, counting them, as he says, of an " inferior quality." Among them were so many pieces which had long ago become favorites in this country, it was thought desirable to include them all in this new collection, the most complete one yet published. The present edition contains sev- enty new Poems in rhyme, and a considerable quantity of Dramatic Verse not before printed. BOSTON, May, 1851. u BARRY CORNWALL, with the exception of Coleridge, is the most genuine poet of love who has. for a long period, appeared among us. There is an intense and passionate beauty, a depth of affection, in his little dramatic poems, which appear even in the affectionate triflings of his gentle characters. He illustrates that holiest of human emotions, which, while it will twine itself with the frailest twig, or dally with the most evanescent shadow of creation, wasting its excess of kindliness on all aronncl it, is yet able to 'look on tempests and be never shaken.' Love is gently omnipotent in his poems ; accident and death itself are but pass- ing clouds, which scarcely vex and which cannot harm it. The lover seems to breathe out his life in the arms of his mistress. as calmly as the infant sinks into its softest slumber. The fair blossoms of his genius, though light and trembling at the breeze, spring from a wide, and deep, and robust stock, which will sus- tain far taller branches without being exhausted." TO THE FIRST EDITION. ENGLAND is singularly barren of Song-writers. There is no English writer of any rank, in my recollection, whose songs form the distinguishing feature of his poetry. The little lyrics which are scattered, like stars, over the surface of our old dramas, are sometimes minute, trifling, and unde- fined in their object; but they are often eminently fine, in fact, the finest things of the kind which our language pos- sesses. There is more inspiration, more air and lyrical quality about them, than in songs of ten times their preten- sions. And this, perhaps, arises from the dramatic faculty of the writers; who. being accustomed, in other things, to shape their verse so as to suit the characters and different purposes of the drama, naturally extend this care to the fashion of the songs themselves. In cases where a writer speaks in his own person, he expends all his egotism upon his lyrics ; and requires that a critic should be near to curtail his misdeeds. When he writes as a dramatist, he is, or ought to be, the critic himself. He is not, so to speak, at all implicated in what is going forward in the poem ; but deals VI INTRODUCTION. out the dialogue, like an indifferent by-stander, seeking only to adjust it to the necessities of the actors. He is above the struggle and turmoil of the battle below, and "Sees, as from a tower, the end of all." It is, in fact, this power of forgetting himself, and of imagin- ing and fashioning characters different from his own, which constitutes the dramatic quality. A man who can set aside his own idiosyncrasy is half a dramatist. It may be thought paradoxical to assert that the songs which occur in dramas are more natural than those which proceed from the author in person : yet such is generally the case. If, indeed, a poet wrote purely and seasonably only, that is to say, if his poetry sprung always from the pas- sion or humor of the moment, the fact might be otherwise. But it may easily be seen, that many rhymes are produced out of season ; and are often nothing more than the result of ingenuity taxed to the uttermost ; or otherwise, are simply the indiscretions of "gentleman at ease," who have nothing, or nothing better, to do. Now Poetry is not to be thus con- strained ; nor is it ever the offspring of ennui or languor. It demands not only the " faculty divine," (so called,) but also. that it should be left to its own impulses. The intellectual faculties are in no one always in a state of tension, or capa- ble of projecting those thoughts which, in happier moments, are cast forth with perfect ease, and which, when thrown out by the Imagination or the Fancy, constitute the charm, and indeed form the essence, of poetry. Much of what I have said applies to verse in general ; but it applies more especially to songs and small pieces of verse, those nugacanora, which, at the time that they plead their "want of pretension," take due care, but too often, to justify their professed defects. When a writer commences a INTRODUCTION. VII poem of serious length, he throws all his strength into it : he selects the happiest hour ; he condenses, and amends, and rejects; and, in short, does his best to produce something good. But in a song, or " a trifie in verse," he feels no re- sponsibility. He professes nothing, and, unfortunately, does little more. It may he said that a song is necessarily a trifling matter ; but, if good, it is a trifle, of at least a different sort. And to make even a trifle perfect or agreeable, should satisfy a moderate ambition. It demands some talent Where po- etry is concerned, it requires even more : for it requires that this talent should be of a peculiar order, and should be ex- erted at a happy time. I am by no means forward to imagine that these two requisites have at any time concurred in my case. But I hope that I have, in a few instances, so far succeeded as to allure other writers, (having more lei- sure than 1 possess,) to direct their powers to this species of verse. It has been too much disdained. Poets have in general preferred exhibiting their tediousness in long com- positions, and have neglected the song. But the brevity, which is the " soul " of song, as well as of wit, is not neces- sarily allied to insignificance. The battle-songs of Mr. Campbell are a triumphant proof of the contrary. So also are many of the songs and ballads of Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Moore, Mr. Lockhart, Mr. Hogg, my friend Allan Cunning- ham, and, finally, the charming songs of Burns. To my thinking, the sentiment in some of Burns's songs is as fine and as true as any thing in Shakspeare himself. I do not speak of his imagination, or of his general power, (both which in the Scottish poet are immeasurably inferior,) but of the mere sentiment or feeling, that fine natural elo- quence which a warm heart taught him. and which he poured out so profusely in song. There is an earnestness Vlll INTRODUCTION. and directness of purpose in Burns, which, if attended to, would, I think, strengthen the poetry of the present day. As an instance of his going at once to the sentiment, without any parade of words, or preliminary flourish, one may refer to the lines, "Although thou maun never be mine, Although, even hope is denied, 'T is sweeter for thee despairing, Than aught in the world beside, Jessy!" in which the sentiment is exquisitely tender and beautiful. We do not, I think, deal thus fairly with our thoughts at present. We accumulate multitudes of words around them ; as though the idea were unable to support itself. Our ver- biage is the Corinthian capital, which has succeeded the finer Ionic. One might almost suspect that " the Schoolmaster," who is everywhere abroad, has generated rather a facility of spreading common thoughts, than a power of originating new ones. At all events, the verbiage which I have alluded to is a manifestation of weakness rather than of strength, and indicates, (if one may judge from analogies,) a de- clension, at least as much as a refinement, in taste. Feeling this, and feeling also that I myself am far from exempted from this defect, I have occasionally introduced some poems in this volume, which are bald enough in expression ; and which, in fact, have little beyond the mere sentiment to recommend them. But this ought to be sufficient. If it be not sufficient in my case, (for it is so, frequently, in Mr. Wordsworth's poems,) I can plead nothing beyond a good intention ; and must throw myself on the charity of i he reader. It cannot be very flattering to our self-love, to observe, that all the song-writers, except Mr. Moore, (and, I ought to have added, Dibdin,) are Scottish poets. In our songs, INTRODUCTION. IX however, we differ not only in merit, but frequently also in character from the songs which have proceeded from Scotland. The latter approach more nearly to the ballad, which comprises a story. A song (adopting the English model as the fit one) may be considered as the expression of a sentiment, varying according to the humor of the poet. It should he fitted for music; and, in fact, should become belter for the accompaniment of music ; otherwise it can scarcely be deemed, essentially, a song. The character of Poetry has always fluctuated with the times; and Songs, as well as the epic poem and the diama, have partaken of each successive change. In early ages, they were spontaneous and necessarily rude productions : in refined times they became artificial. Neither of these two periods are, I apprehend, the most favorable to poetry. The mind of the poet requires to be somewhat cultivated and en- larged by reading ; but it should not be perplexed by too many critical distinctions, nor weakened by excessive refine- ment. The age of poetry precedes that of criticism ; as the act precedes the law, which is made to control it. It is then, in the youth and first manhood of literature, that all imaginative writings are the best. If they exhibit not the fastidiousness and superfluous accuracy of later ages, (which, in many cases, is little better than the " ridiculous excess,") they make amends for such deficiencies by the freshness and beauty, the originality and undaunted vigor, of their images. In effect, it is a species of paradox in criticism, to insist upon minute and mathematical niceties, in things which deal mainly with the passions. In our country, (and I believe in most others,) the ballad preceded the song. The achievements of the warrior were reflected in the magnifying verse of the minstrel. There scarcely ever was an age so dark, or a people so barbarous, X INTRODUCTION. as not to have possessed bards who sang the praises of their heroes. These two seem, in fact, to have been almost neces- sary to each other ; and to have gone, hand in hand, together, illustrating the soul and sinews of the times. The soldier would have lacked one strong incentive, had a minstrel been found wanting to shout forth his deeds; and, without a hero. the minstrel would have had little or no subject for his song. For all the subtleties of thought, which writers in more ad- vanced ages pour out so profusely, are beyond the range of an uneducated poet. He knows, and sings only, what he sees and hears. The sheep and their pastures, the strug- gles and bloody feuds of his province, form the staple of his verse. His heroes are renowned, like the racer, for blood, and bone, and sinew. All else is beyond his limit, beyond his power. It is the educated poet only who subdues abstract ideas to the purposes of his verse, and lets loose his Imagina- tion into daring and subtle speculations. There is no one, with whose works I am acquainted, who falsifies this posi- tion ; saving perhaps Shakspeare, who is an exception to all things ! The ballad-writers of our country were men of great tal- ent ; but they did not go beyond their age. They roared out Bacchanalian songs, over sack and the " blood-red wine "; they bruited about the deeds of their favorite heroes, till the heroism of the verse bore the same proportion to the original actions that vapor does to water. In return for this, they were paid in bed and board ; in wine, and mead, and broad- cloth ; and in huge quantities of praise ! Occasionally, in- deed, when some rich and puissant baron was transformed into a god, or his dame or daughter was exhibited in flat- tering comparison with the foam-born .Venus, by the false glamour of poetry, the minstrel became master of a jewel or an ounce of gold. Subsequently to all this, our ballad- INTRODUCTION. XI makers and players wandered about to fairs and revels. Pri- vate beneficence was often found wanting; (perhaps it was sometimes taxed too heavily;) and the men who had wares for all tastes, wisely left the individual for the multitude. And hence began the patronage of " the Public." The competition for public favor, however, was not long confined to professed minstrels. The arts of reading and writing opened a new prospect of ambition to our noble an- cestors. The spirit of chivalry, which had previously mani- fested itself in hard blows alone, sought opportunities for exhibiting its gentler qualities in song. Love, Devotion, Constancy, Generosity, and the various other Virtues, (which do not consist merely in the muscles, or spring from the sheer insensibility of the animal man,) found historians. Surrey, "Wyatt, Sidney, Raleigh, and a host of others, form part of this early class of poets. Their style and gallantry (with such small gradual change as is always occurring in litera- ture) remained till the death of Charles the First. Upon that occasion the belles Jeltres, as well as monarchy, were overturned for a time ; but returned, the former in a new guise and thoroughly degenerated, with the courtiers of his son. From that period, till the time of Thomson and Collins, (for I refer Milton to the earlier period,) all our songs, and most of our poems, were evidently written by the celebrated " Lady of Quality." * I recollect scarcely a sin- gle English song of high character, which has been ten years before the public. And yet, Burns and other Scottish poets * Dryden, and Pope, and a few others, form of course illustrious exceptions to this censure. * * * Since the foregoing Introduction was written. I have submitted it to the perusal of a friend, whose opinion I respect; and he tells me that I have not done justice to the song-writers who have flourished since the Restoration. Perhaps I have relied too much on my old impressions, in- stead of examining the facts again. Xll INTRODUCTION. have, for almost half a century, been scattering among us the seeds of a better taste. Let us hope, that, in an agreea- ble (although not very important) department of literature, we are destined to some improvement. For the following poems, (about one third of which may be called Songs,) I do not insist very strongly on the admiration of the reader. They are intended somewhat in the shape of a farewell offering, from a person who has met with much kindness from the Public, and is neither able nor inclined to forget it. CONTENTS. PART THE FIRST. PAGE The Sea 1 The Home of the Absentee 3 Indian Love ......... 4 King Death 5 Past Times 6 A Serenade 7 To my Lyre 8 The Onset : A Battle Song 9 Song for Twilight 10 The Hunter's Song 11 The Recall '12 The Exile's Farewell . . . . . . . 13 On a Mother and Child sleeping 14 The Sea-King . 15 The Wild Cherry-Tree 16 The Common Lot 17 The Little Voice 18 A Bacchanalian Song 19 D ark-eyed Beauty of the South 20 The Poet's Song to his Wife 21 She was not fair nor full of Grace 22 A Song for the Seasons 23 The Quadroon 24 The Bloodhound . 25 XIV CONTENTS. Is mv Lover on the Sea ?..... PAGE . 26 The Mistletoe ">7 Constancy The Nights To a Nightingale, at Mid-day .... The Stormy Petrel Earth and Air . 28 29 . 30 31 . 32 Song of the Soldier to his Sword The Happy Hours Hurrah for Merry England .... Why doth the Bottle stand ? Count Balthazar 33 . 34 35 . 36 37 When Friends look dark and cold . 39 The Night is closing round, Mother Peace ! What do Tears avail ? . 40 . 41 The Wood-Thrush 42 Midnight Rhymes . ... A Love Song The Stranger Song in Praise of Spring .... The Night before the Bridal .... A deep and a mighty Shadow Belshazzar . 43 44 . 43 46 . 47 48 . 49 The Heart-Broken 50 A Phantasy Life . 51 3 PAET THE SECOND. The Return of the Admiral .... 55 Home ........ 58 The Vintage- Song . . . . . The Evening Star The Weaver's Song Sleep on . 59 60 . 61 62 CONTENTS. XV PAGE Love and Mirth 63 Song over a Child 64 The Landsman's Song 65 Perdita 66 Love the Poet, pretty One 67 Lucy 68 The Wooing Song 69 Hermione 70 The Owl 71 Marian .......... 72 The Humber Ferry 73 A Repose 74 The Lake has burst 75 Sing, Maiden, sing ! 76 Maureen 77 Unequal Love 78 Wine 79 Sing ! Who mingles with my Lays ? .... 80 I love my Love, because he loves me . . . . .81 Talk not to me of Love ....... 82 Miriam 83 Babylon 85 Her large, dark, luminous Eyes are on me . . . .86 The Remonstrance 87 Kill the Love that winds around thee 88 What say the Clouds on the Hill and Plain ? . . . 89 A Dilemma 90 The Beggar's Song . . . . . . . 91 To Sophie 92 Build up a Column to Bolivar ..... 93 The Farewell of the Soldier 94 The Nightshade 95 True Love 96 Song of the Outcast 97 To a Flower 98 Forbidden Love 99 XVI CONTENTS. PAGE A Bridal Dirge 100 The Convict's Farewell 101 The Rhine 105 Sweet Friend, where sleeps thy Song ? . . . . 106 The Hirlas Horn 107 Come! Let us go to the Land 108 The Leveller 109 The Secret of Singing 110 PART THE THIRD. The Fight of Ravenna 113 The Fire-Fly 122 The Blood Horse 123 Hidden Thoughts 124 An Epistle to Charles Lamb 125 Sit down, sad Soul 1 29 A Chamber Scene 130 Courage 131 The Fisherman l;>2 The Pauper's Jubilee 1 33 The Falcon 136 The Past 137 Song of Wood-Nymphs 139 The Song of a Felon's Wife 140 To the Singer Pasta 141 Fuller's Bird 143 The Sea, in Calm 144 A Hymn of Evil Spirits 145 Softly woo away her Breath 146 A Thought on a Rivulet 147 I loved her when she looked from me . . . .148 A Storm 149 Parents' Love 151 The Vain Regret 152 CONTENTS. XV11 PAGE The Violet 153 Beauty 154 Sybilla 155 A Midsummer Fancy 156 Past and Present 157 Wilt thou go ? 158 On some Human Bones, found on a Headland in the Bay of Panama 159 An Irish Song 1 60 'T is better we laugh than weep 161 A Drinking Song 162 River of the Morn 1 63 Song should breathe 1 64 Song for our Father-land 165 Thou hast Love within thine Eyes . . . . 166 To the Snow-drop 167 Wilt thou leave me ? 168 In Commemoration of Haydn 169 On the Portrait of a Child 1 70 Inscriptions. More Grcecum . . . . . .171 Napoleon Golden-tressed Adelaide Love flying A Dreamer's Song .......* A Poet's Thought To a Lady attiring herself Wilt thou remember me ?...... I go, and she doth miss me not " 78 A Parting Song 179 I die for thy sweet Love 179 What Use is all the Love 1 bear thee ? . . . . 1 50 A Farewell 180 She sate by the River Springs 181 A Reproach 182 A Conceit 182 A Night Song 183 b XV111 CONTENTS. PAGE To Adelaide 184 A Prayer in Sickness 185 To a Voyager 186 His Love is hidden 186 Song. From a Play 187 Sister, I cannot read to-day 187 Sea-shore Stanzas 1 88 On the Death of a Child 189 To a Poetess 1 90 A Petition to Time 191 A Question and Reply 191 Wishes 192 An Epitaph 192 ADDITIONAL SONGS. A Song for the New Year 195 London 197 My old Arm-Chair . . . ^ 199 H Penseroso and L'Allegro 202 Within and Without 204 A Panegyric on Ale 206 The Pearl- Wearer 210 A Farewell to Home 212 The Rake's Progress 214 Thirteen Years ago 217 A Dirge 220 The Fate of the Oak 221 The History of a Life 222 On a Stranger's Grave near Venice .... 223 Music . . . . . . . . . . 223 To the Eyes of a Young Actress 226 An Invocation to Music 227 To a Friend in Autumn 228 CONTENTS. XIX PAGE Lowly Pleasures ' 229 To our Neighbor's Health 230 To a Poet abandoning his Art 232 Ignorance is Bliss 233 Mens Divinior 234 Henri Quatre 235 A Catalogue of Common-places 236 An Extravaganza 237 Love and Light 237 The Twin-Born 238 A Common Thought 239 A Phantasy 240 On a Lady slandered 242 To a Sleeper 243 A Dirge 244 A Lament 245 Stanzas 246 Song, after Labor .247 The Sailor's Lament for the Sea 248 The Poet and the Fisher 249 To D. Maclise, K. A 250 Song 252 For Music 252 Song 253 A Love Song 253 Song 254 Song 255 A Song on an Old Subject 256 Song 257 Question and Reply 257 To the South Wind 259 Song 260 The Poor-House 261 Pastoral 264 The Pale Queen 264 The Stars 266 XX CONTENTS. PAGE The last Stave 267 The Rising of the North 268 The Sea Fight 272 The Wreck 274 The Time of Charlemagne 276 The Approach of Winter 278 A Christmas Reminiscence ...... 280 A Farewell to December The Modern Cymon --4 The Poor Scholar's Song 289 Rind and Fruit 290 The Prophet 291 Sit near ! Sit near ! 293 The Mother's last Song 294 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. PART THE FIRST. Introduction to a Drama (1821) 297 The Valley of Ladies 302 An Utilitarian 303 The Uses of Courage 303 Life everywhere 304 Fame the Offspring of Fortune 304 Love independent of Reason ...... 305 A Jester ; from the antique 305 A Case of Witchcraft 307 Mesalliance , 307 Resolution 308 Ascending Visions 308 The New Year 309 Life and Death ........ ao-j Autumn 310 CONTENTS. XXI PAGE The Sorrow of an Heir ....... 310 Unborn Flowers 311 A Mother pleads to see her Children 311 A Superstition 312 A Page untranslatable 314 Twilight 314 Exiles 314 Friends in Death 316 A New Alcestis 316 Old Romance ........ 319 An Agrarian Law 320 Aggrandizement by the Passions 321 Advice on Marriage 321 Death in Youth 322 Hopefulness of Love 322 Good in every Heart 322 A Lover's Memory 323 Polyphemus 323 Parents' Love : Value of Reproof 324 Goodness comes without Parade 324 Evening Music 324 Fancy thrives in Darkness . . . . . . 326 Children 326 Pride of Birth 327 A Discovery. Confidential Talk 327 Constancy in Crime 330 Popular Commotions ....... 331 Battles .331 Animal Love 332 Wisdom, a Problem 333 Comfort in Nature 334 Mute Confession 334 A Lily 334 Uninspired Music ....... 335 Fellowship 335 The Rise of a Favorite 336 6* XX11 CONTENTS. PAGE Fate of the Daring 337 A Father's Anger . 337 Good never ceases 338 The Limit of a Hero 338 A Prophet 339 A Sceptic in Happiness 340 False Worship 340 The Test of Love 341 A Truism 341 Silence 342 A Conqueror's Account of Himself 342 Parish Law-givers 343 Kindness is Power ........ 344 Soldier's Love 344 A Poet's Reply 345 PART THE SECOND. A Murderer reproaches his Employer; the Retort . 349 A Man without Repentance 351 A Jew's Use for Riches 352 Consolation in Poverty 353 The same subject 353 The Exultation of an Heir 354 Love 354 Revenge 355 A Blush 356 A Butt 356 Specimen of Courtiers 356 Account of a Boaster 357 A Bridal Couple 358 A Mature Taste 358 The Schoolmaster abroad 359 Nothing perfect 359 Remonstrance 360 CONTENTS. XXI11 PAGE The Intellect strengthened by Study 360 Taste in Vice 360 A Kich Man 361 Sadness avoided by the Wealthy 361 Loss of Strength . . . . .361 Questions to one restored from Death .... 362 The Grave 362 Knowledge 363 A Poor Man 363 A Constant Soldier 364 The Heathen Deities 364 Mi.uht and Right 365 Unions dangerous ........ 366 Death stationary ........ 366 A Lover's Likeness 366 Another 367 Music 367 The Town 367 Specimen of a Cavalier 368 A Publican and his Customers 368 A New Petruchio 369 Death 370 Night Thoughts 370 Mute Sorrow the most powerful 371 Flowers 371 A Lover's Irresolution . 372 Useless Fear 372 A transient Thought 373 Reproof to one who has no ear 373 Grief fantastical 374 Dreams 374 Age double-sighted 374 Philosophers human 375 Kings 375 Revenge 375 Picture of a Hypochondriac 376 XXIV CONTENTS. PAGB Infirmity lies in the Mind 376 An Ancient Pile 376 The Exaggeration of Grief 377 A Princess's Dishonor 377 A Desperate Man 377 Suitable Music . . . . ' . . . . 378 A Tender Voice 378 A Fancy 378 A Young Man's Opinion of Age 379 A Sceptic in Virtue 379 Slander of Women 380 No Love to be despised 381 A Lover of Sentiment 381 A Protege 382 The General Law . 383 A Bold Man . 383 A Brother . 383 An Epitaph 384 We love one different from ourselves 385 Satisfaction in a Blow 386 A Lady drowned 386 ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC. %* THE Writer of the following Poems has, for some years past, abandoned verse-writing, for 1 graver, and (to him) more important occupations. He has, however, influenced by mo- tives with which he need not trouble the reader, allowed some of the MSS. remaining in his portfolio to be printed. The time is not very favorable to productions of this sort; but "Le Printemps reviendra .' " the days for relishing poetry can never be utterly at an end. We may as well hope to extinguish the Imagination and the Fancy themselves, as to put a final stop to the love which poetry (their offspring) has so long excited. When "the spring shall return," the Author hopes that a few of these verses will find favor with the public ; upon whose kind- ness and courtesy he throws himself, as a writer of verse, for he believes the last time ! It is proper to state that several of the following Songs, which have obtained considerable popularity, are indebted for it mainly, if not solely, to the music of the CHEVALIER SIGISMOND NEO- KOMM ; a composer of the very first order. SONGS, &c. PART THE FIRST. SONGS. PART THE FIRST. I. THE SEA. SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEtTKOMM. 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 vvheresoe'er I go ; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter ? / shall ride and sleep. 1 SONGS. I love, O, how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When eveiy mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the sou'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 comes to me, Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea ! SONGS. II. THE HOME OF THE ABSENTEE. THE weed mourns on the castle wall, The grass lies on the chamber floor, And on the hearth, and in the hall, Where merry music danced of yore ! And the blood-red wine no longer Runs, (how it used to run !) And the shadows within, grown stronger, Look black on the midday sun ! All is gone ; save a Voice That never did yet rejoice : ' T w sweet and low ; '/ is sad and lone ; And it biddeth us love the thing that 's flown. The Gardens feed no fruits nor flowers, But childless seem, and in decay ; The traitor clock forsakes the hours, And points to times, O, far away ! And the steed no longer neigheth, Nor paws the startled ground ; And the dun hound no longer bayeth ; But death is in all around ! All is gone ; save a Voice That never did yet rejoice : ' T is siceet and low ; ''t is sad and lone ; And it biddeth us love the thing that ''sjloicn. SONGS. The Lord of all the lone domain, An undeserving master, flies, And leaves a land where he might reign, For alien hearts and stranger skies : And the peasant disdains the story He loved to recount of yore ; And the Name, that was once a glory, Is heard in the land no more ! All is gone ; save a Voice Thai never did yet rejoice : ' T is sweet and low ; '/ is sad and lone ; And it biddeth us love the thing that 's flown. ra. INDIAN LOVE. TELL me not that thou dost love me, Though it thrill me with delight : Thou art, like the stars, above me ; I, the lowly earth at night. Hast thou (thou from kings descended) Loved the Indian cottage-born ; And shall she, whom Love befriended, Darken all thy hopeful morn ? Go, and, for thy fathers' glory, Wed the blood that 's pure and free : 'T is enough to gild my story That I once was loved by thee ! SONGS. IV. KING DEATH. SBT TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOKM. KING Death was a rare old fellow ! He sat 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, Like life to the fading rose. Hurrah ! for the coal-black Wine ! 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 ! SONGS. V.-PAST TIMES. OLD Acquaintance, shall the nights You and I once talked together Be forgot like common things, Like some dreary night that brings Naught, save foul weather ? We were young, when you and I Talked of golden things together, Of love and rhyme, of books and men : Ah ! our hearts were buoyant then As the wild-goose feather ! Twenty years have fled, we know, Bringing care and changing weather ; But hath th' heart no backward flights, That we again may see those nights, And laugh together ? Jove's eagle, soaring to the sun, Renews the past year's mouldering feather Ah, why not you and I, then, soar From age to youth, and dream once more Long nights together ? SOXGS. - VI. A SERENADE. SET TO MUSIC BT THE CHEVALIER NEtJKOMM. 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 Lore'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 Lovers sweet sake ! Awake ! Within the musk-rose bower I watch, pale flower of love, for thee : Ah, come, and show the starry Hour What wealth of love thou hid'st from me ! Awake ! Awake ! Show all thy love, for Lore's sweet sake ! SONGS. 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 ! VII. TO MY LYRE. SLEEP, sleep, my Lyre ! Untouched, unsought, unstrung ! No one now will e'er inquire If poet to thee ever sung ; Nor if his spirit clung To thy witching wire ! Bid thy soul of music sleep, As winds lie on the charmed deep, When the mistress Moon doth chide The tempest, or the murmuring tide ! 'T is well to be a thing forgot ! Oblivion is a happy lot ! 'T is well that neither Love, nor Woe, Nor sad, sweet thoughts of " long ago," Should 'waken again thy self-consuming fire ! Therefore, therefore, sleep, my Lyre ! SONGS. VIII. THE ONSET. A BATTLE SONG. SOUND an alarum ! The foe is come ! I hear the tramp, the neigh, the hum, The cry, and the blow of his daring drum ! Huzzah ! Sound ! The blast of our trumpet blown Shall carry dismay into hearts of stone. What ! shall we shake at a foe unknown ? Huzzah ! Huzzah ! Have we not sinews as strong as they ? Have we not hearts that ne'er gave way ? Have we not GOD on our side to-day ? Huzzah ! Look ! They are staggered on yon black heath Steady awhile, and hold your breath ! Now is your time, men ! Down like Death ! Huzzah ! Huzzah I Stand by each other, and front your foes ! Fight, whilst a drop of the red blood flows ! Fight, as ye fought for the old red rose ! Huzzah ! Sound ! Bid your terrible trumpets bray ! Blow, till their brazen throats give way ! Sound to the battle ! Sound, I say ! Huzzah ! Huzzah ! 10 SONGS. IX. - SONG FOR TWILIGHT. SET TO MUSIC BY THB CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. HIDE me, O twilight Air ! Hide me, from thought, from care, From all things, foul or fair, Until to-morrow ! To-night I strive no more ; No more my soul shall soar : Come, Sleep, and shut the door 'Gainst Pain and Sorrow ! If I must see through dreams, Be mine Elysian gleams, Be mine by morning streams To watch and wander ! So may my spirit cast (Serpent-like) off the past, And my free soul at last Have leave to ponder ! And shouldst thou 'scape control, Ponder on love, sweet Soul, On joy, the end, the goal, Of all endeavour ! But if earth's pains will rise, (As damps will seek the skies,) Then, Night, seal thou mine eyes, In sleep, for ever! SONGS. 11 X.-THE HUNTER'S SONG. SET TO MCSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEtTKOMM. RISE ! Sleep no more ! 'T is a noble morn : The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn, And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound, Underthe steaming, steaming ground. Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by, And leave us alone in the clear gray sky ! Our horses are ready and steady. So, ho ! I 'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow. Hark, hark ! Who callelh the maiden Morn From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn 1 The horn, the horn ! The merry, sweet ring of the hunters horn. Now, thorough the copse, where the fox is found, And over the stream, at a mighty bound, And over the high lands, and over the low, O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go ! Away ! as a hawk flies full at its prey, So flieth the hunter, away, away ! From the burst at the cover till set of sun, When the red fox dies, and the day is done ! Hark, hark ! What sound on the ivind is borne ? ' T is the conquering voice of the hunter's horn. The horn, the horn I The merry, bold voice of the hunters horn. 12 SONGS. Sound ! Sound the horn ! To the hunter good What 's the gulley deep or the roaring flood ? Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds, At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds. O, what delight can a mortal lack, When he once is firm on his horse's back, With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong, And the blast of the horn for his morning song ? Hark, hark ! JVW, home ! and dream till morn Of the lold, stceet sound of the hunter^s horn ! The /iorn, the horn ! O, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn ! XI. THE RECALL. COME again ! Come again ! Sunshine cometh after rain. As a tamp fed newly burneth, Pleasure, who doth fly, returneth, Scattering every cloud of pain. As the year, which dies in showers, Riseth in a world of flowers, Called by many a vernal strain, Come thou, for whom tears were falling, And a thousand tongues are calling ! Come again, O, come again ! Like the sunshine after rain ! SONGS. 13 XII. THE EXILE'S FAREWELL. SET TO MfSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. FAREWELL Old England's shores ! Farewell her rugged men ! Now, sailors, strain your oars ! I ne'er will look again. I 've lived, I 've sought, I 've seen,' O, things I love too well, Upon those shores of green : So, England ! long farewell ! Farewell ! I go, what matter where ? The Exile, when he flies, Thinks not of other air, Dreams not of alien skies : He seeks but to depart From the land he loves too well, From thoughts that smite his heart : So, England ! long farewell ! Farewell ! O'er lands and the lonely main, A lonelier man, I roam, To seek some balm for pain, Perhaps to find a home : 14 SONGS. I go, but Time nor tide, Nor all that tongue may tell, Shall e'er from thee divide My heart, and so, farewell ! Old England, fare thee well ! XIII. ON A MOTHER AND CHILD SLEEPING. NIGHT, gaze, but send no sound ! Fond heart, thy fondness keep ! Nurse Silence, wrap them round ! Breathe low ; they sleep, they sleep ! No wind ! no murmuring showers ! No music, soft and deep ! No thoughts, nor dreams of flowers ! All hence ; they sleep, they sleep ! Time's step is all unheard : Heaven's stars bright silence keep : No breath, no sigh, no word ! All 's still ; they sleep, they sleep ! O Life ! O Night ! O Time ! Thus ever round them creep ! From pain, from hate, from crime, E'er guard them, gentle Sleep ! SONGS. 15 XIV. THE SEA-KING. SET TO MPSIC 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 vanquished 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-Xing, 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 look 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, fyc. SONGS. XV. THE WILD CHERRY-TREE. O, THERE never was yet so fair a thing, By racing river or bubbling spring, Nothing that ever so gayly grew Up from the ground when the skies were blue, Nothing so brave, nothing so free, As thou, my wild, wild Cherry-tree ! Jove ! how it danced in the gusty breeze ! Jove ! how it frolicked amongst the trees ! Dashing the pride of the poplar down, Stripping the thorn of his hoary crown ! Oak or ash, what matter to thee 1 'T was the same to my wild, wild Cherry-tree. Never at rest, like one that 's young Abroad to the winds its arms it flung, Shaking its bright and crowned head, Whilst I stole up for its berries red. Beautiful berries ! beautiful tree ! Hurrah ! for the wild, wild Cherry-tree ! Back I fly to the days gone by, And I see thy branches against the sky, I see on the grass thy blossoms shed, 1 see (nay, I taste) thy berries red, And I shout, like the tempest loud and free, Hurrah ! for the wild, wild Cherry-tree ! SONGS. 17 XVI. THE COMMON LOT. MOURN not thy daughter fading ! It is the common lot, That those we love should come and go, And leave us in this world of woe : So, murmur not ! Her life was short, but fair, Unsullied by a blot ; And now she sinks to dreamless rest, (A dove, who makes the earth her nest ;) So, murmur not ! No pangs, nor passionate grief, Nor anger raging hot, No ills shall ever harm her more ; She goes unto the silent shore, Where pain is not. Weep'st thou that none should mourn For thee, and thy sad lot ? Peace, peace ! and know that few e'er grieve When Death, the tyrant, doth unweave Life's little knot. 2 18 SONGS. E'en tliou scarce wept must fade ! It is the common lot, To link our hearts to things that fly, To love without return, and die, And be forgot ! XVII. -THE LITTLE VOICE. SET TO MUSIC BT THE CHEVALIER NECKOMM. ONCE there was a little Voice, Merry as the month of May, That did cry " Rejoice ! Rejoice ! " Now 't is flown away ! Sweet it was, and very clear, Chasing every thought of pain : Summer ! shall I ever hear Such a voice again ? I have pondered all night long, Listening for as soft a sound ; But so sweet and clear a song ' Never have I found ! I would give a mine of gold, Could I hear that little Voice, Could I, as in days of old, At a sound rejoice ! SONGS. 19 XVIII. 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 who governs a thousand streams ? Ah, who is this Spirit fine ? 'T is WINE, boys, \ is WINE ! God Bacchus, a friend of mine. O, better is he Than grape or tree, And the best of all good company ! 20 SONGS. XIX. DARK-EYED BEAUTY OF THE SOUTH. DARK-EYED beauty of the South ! Mistress of the rosy mouth ! Doth thy heart desert its duty ? Doth thy blood belie thy beauty ? Art thou false, and art thou cold ? Art thou sworn to wed for gold ? On thy forehead sitteth pride, Crowned with scorn and falcon-eyed ; But beneath, methinks, thou twinest Silken smiles that seem divinest. Can such smiles be false and cold ? Canst thou, wilt thou, wed for gold ? We, who dwell on Northern earth, Fill the frozen air with mirth, Soar upon the wings of laughter, (Though we droop the moment after :) But, through all our regions cold, None will sell their hearts for gold. SONGS. 21 XX. 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 ! 22 SONGS. XXI. SHE WAS NOT FAIR NOR FULL OF GRACE. SHE was not fair, nor full of grace, Nor crowned with thought or aught beside ; Nor 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 to one poor thought alone, When all we know is, " She was here," And " She hath flown ! " SONGS. 23 XXII. A SONG FOR THE SEASONS. WHEN the merry lark doth gild With his song the summer hours, And their nests the swallows build In the roofs and tops of towers, And the golden broom-flower burns All about the waste, And the maiden May returns With a pretty haste, Then, how merry are the times ! The Summer times ! the Spring times ! Now, from ofF the ashy stone The chilly midnight cricket crieth, And all merry birds are flown, And our dream of pleasure dieth ; Now the once blue, laughing sky Saddens into gray, And the frozen rivers sigh, Pining all away ! Now, how solemn are the times ! The Winter times ! the Night times ! Yet, be merry : all around Is through one vast change resolving : Even Night, who lately frowned, Is in paler dawn dissolving : 24 SONGS. Earth will burst her fetters strange, And in spring grow free : All things in the world will change, Save my love for thee ! Sing then, hopeful are all times ! Winter, Summer, Spring times ! . THE QUADROON. SAY they that all beauty lies In the paler maiden's hue ? Say they that all softness flies, Save from eyes of April blue ? Arise thou, like a night in June, Beautiful Quadroon ! Come, all dark and bright, as skies With the tender starlight hung ! Loose the Love from out thine eyes ! Loose the Angel from thy tongue ! Let them hear Heaven's own sweet tune, Beautiful Quadroon ! Tell them, Beauty (born above) From no shade nor hue doth fly : All she asks is Mind, is Love, And both upon thine aspect lie, Like the light upon the moon, Beautiful Quadroon ! SONGS. 25 XXIV. THE BLOODHOUND. SKT TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. COME, Herod, my hound, from the stranger's floor ! Old friend, we must wander the world once more ! For no one now liveth to welcome us back : So, come ! let us speed on our fated track. What matter the region, what matter the weather, So you and I travel, till death, together ? And in death ? why, e'en there I may still be found By the side of my beautiful black bloodhound. We 've traversed the desert, we 've traversed the sea, And we 've trod on the heights where the eagles be ; Seen Tartar, and Arab, and swart Hindoo ; (How thou pull'dst down the deer in those skies of blue !) No joy did divide us ; no peril could part The man from his friend of the noble heart ; Ay, his friend ; for where where shall there ever be found A friend like his resolute, fond bloodhound ? What, Herod, old hound ! dost remember the day When I fronted the wolves, like a stag at bay ? When downwards they galloped to where we stood, Whilst I staggered with fear in the dark pine wood ? Dost remember their bowlings ? their horrible speed ? God, God ! how I prayed for a friend in need ! And he came ! Ah ! 't was then, my dear Herod, I found That the best of all friends was my bold bloodhound. 26 SONGS. Men tell us, dear friend, that the noble hound Must for ever be lost in the worthless ground : Yet, ' Courage' ' Fidelity ' ' Love ' (they say) Bear Man, as on wings, to his skies away. Well, Herod, go tell them whatever may be I '11 hope I may ever be found by thee. If in sleep, in sleep ; if with skies around, Mayst thou follow e'en thither, my dear bloodhound ! XXV. IS MY LOVER OX THE SEA. Is my lover on the sea, Sailing East, or sailing West ? Mighty Ocean, gentle be, Rock him into rest ! Let no angry wind arise, Nor a wave with whitened crest : All be gentle as his eyes When he is caressed ! Bear him (as the breeze above Bears the bird unto its nest) Here, unto his home of love, And there bid him rest ! SONGS. 27 XXVI. THE MISTLETOE. SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. WHEN winter nights grow long, And winds without blow cold, We sit in a ring round the warm wood-fire, And listen to stories old ! And we tiy to look grave, (as maids should be,) When the men bring in boughs of the Laurel-tree. O the Laurel, the evergreen tree ! The Poets have laurels, and why not we ? How pleasant, when night falls down, And hides the wintry sun, To see them come in to the blazing fire, And know that their work is done ; Whilst many bring in, with a laugh or rhyme, Green branches of Holly for Christmas time ! O the Holly, the bright green Holly, It tells (like a tongue) that the times are jolly ! Sometimes (in our grave house, Observe, this happeneth not ;) But, at times, the evergreen laurel boughs And the holly are all forgot ! 28 SONGS. And then ! what then ? why, the men laugh low, And hang up a branch of - the Mistletoe ! O, brave is the Laurel ! and brave is the Holly ! But the Mistletoe banisheth melancholy ! Ah, nobody knows, nor ever shall know, What is done under the Mistletoe ! XXVII. -CONSTANCY. I WOULD I were the bold March- wind, The merry, boisterous, bold March-wind, Who in the violet's tender eyes Casts a kiss, and forwards flies ! Yet, no ! No slight to thee ! O Constancy ! O Constancy ! I would I were the soft West- wind, The wandering, sighing, soft West-wind, Who fondles round the hyacinth bells, Then takes wing, as story tells ! Yet, no ! No slight to thee f O Constancy ! O Constancy f No ; rather will I be the breeze, That blows straight on in Indian seas ; Or scents, which, in the rose's heart, Live and love, and ne'er depart ! Love, Love, for aye to thee ! Constancy ! Constancy ! SONGS. 29 XX VIII. THE NIGHTS. SET TO MUSIC BY THB CHEVALIER NKUKOMM. O, THE Summer Night Has a smile of light, And she sits on a sapphire throne ; Whilst the sweet Winds load her With garlands of odor, From the bud to the rose o'erblown ! But the Autumn Night Has a piercing sight, And a step both strong and free ; And a voice for wonder, Like the wrath of the Thunder, When he shouts to the stormy sea ! And the Winter Night Is all cold and white, And she singeth a song of pain ; Till the wild bee hummeth, And warm Spring cometh, When she dies in a dream of rain ! O, the Night, the Night ! 'T is a lovely sight, Whatever the clime or time ; For sorrow then soareth, And the lover outpoureth His soul in a star-bright rhyme. 30 SONGS. It bringeth sleep To the forests deep, The forest bird to its nest ; To Care bright hours, And dreams of flowers, And that balm to the weary, Rest ! XXIX. TO A NIGHTINGALE, AT MID-DAY. THY voice is sweet, is sad, is clear, And yet, methinks, 't should flow unseen, Like hidden rivers that we hear Singing amongst the forests green. Delay, delay ! till downy Eve Into her twilight woods hath flown : Too soon, musician, dost thou grieve ; Love bloometh best (like thought) alone. Cease, cease awhile ! Thy holy strain Should be amongst the silence born ; Thy heart may then unfold its pain, Leaning upon its bridal thorn. The insect noise, the human folly Disturb thy grave thoughts with their din ; Then, cease awhile, bird Melancholy, And when the fond Night hears, begyi ! SONGS. 31 XXX. -THE STORMY PETREL. SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. A THOUSAND miles from land are we, Tossing about on the roaring sea ; From billow to bounding billow cast, Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast : The sails are scattered abroad, like weeds, The strong masts shake, like quivering reeds, The mighty cables, and iron chains, The hull, which all earthly strength disdains, They strain and they crack, and hearts like stone Their natural hard, proud strength disown. Up and down ! Up and down ! From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, And amidst the flashing and feathery foam The Stormy Petrel finds a home, A home, if such a place may be, For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, And only seeketh her rocky lair To warm her young, and to teach them spring At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing ! O'er the Deep ! O'er the Deep ! Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep, Outflying the blast and the driving rain, The Petrel telleth her tale in vain ; 32 SONGS. For the mariner curseth the warning bird Who bringeth him news of the storms unheard ! Ah ! thus does the prophet, of good or ill, Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still : Yet he ne'er falters : So, Petrel ! spring Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing ! XXXI. EARTH AND AIR. How bountiful, how wonderful Thou art, sweet Air ! And yet, albeit thine odors lie On every gust that mocks the eye, We pass thy gentle blessings by Without a care ! How bountiful, how wonderful Thou art, sweet Earth ! Thy seasons, changing with the sun, Thy beauty out of darkness won ! And yet, whose tongue (when all is done) Will tell thy worth ? The poet's ! He alone doth still Uphold all worth ! Then, love the poet ; love his themes, His thoughts, half-hid in golden dreams, Which make thrice fair the songs and streams Of Air and Earth. SONGS. 33 SONG OF THE SOLDIER TO HIS SWORD. MY Sword ! My friend ! My noble friend ! Champion fearless ! Servant true ! Whom my fathers without end In their thousand battles drew, Come ! Let me bare thee to the light ! Let me clutch thee in my hand ! O, how keen, how blue, how bright, Is my noble, noble brand ! Thou wast plucked from some base mine, Bora 'midst stone and stubborn clay : Ah ! who dreamt that aught divine In that rugged aspect lay ? Come ! Once we called and thou didst come, Straight from out thy sleep didst start, And the trump and stormy drum Woke at once thine iron heart ! Thou wast like the lightning, driven By the tempest's strength at speed ! Brazen shields and armor riven Told what thou couldst do, at need. Come ! Hark ! again the trumpets bray ! Hark ! where rolls the stormy drum ! / am here to lead the way : Servant of my fathers, Come ! 3 34 SONGS. XXXIII. THE HAPPY HOURS. SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER WEUKOMM. THE Hours ! the happy Hours ! When there shone the light of Love, And all the sky was blue above, And the earth was full of flowers ! Why should Time and Toil The worth and beauty spoil Of such happy Hours 1 O the Hours ! the spring-time Hours ! When the Soul doth forwards bend And dream the sweet world hath no end, Neither spot, nor shade, nor showers ! Can we ne'er resume The love, the light, the bloom Of those vernal Hours 1 Ever do the year's bright Hours Come, with laughing April, round, And with her walk the grassy ground, When she calleth forth the flowers : But no new springs bear To us thoughts half so fair As the bygone Hours ! SONGS. 35 XXXIV. HURRAH FOR MERRY ENGLAND. HURRAH, for the Land of England ! Firm-set in the subject sea ; Where the women are fair, And the men (like air) Are all lovers of liberty ! Hurrah ! for merry England ! Long life, without strife, for England ! Hurrah, for the Spirit of England ! The bold, the true, the free ; Who stretcheth his hand, With a king's command, All over the circling sea ! Hurrah ! for merry England ! Long life, without strife, for England ! Let tyrants rush forth on the nations, And strive to chain down the free ; But do Thou stand fast, From the first to the last, For " THE RIGHT," wheresoever it be ! merry and nolle England ! Long life to the Spirit of England ! Hurrah, for William of England ! Our friend, as a King should be ; Who casteth aside Man's useless pride, And leans on his people free ! Hurrah ! for the King of England ! The friend of merry England ! 36 SONGS. Her King is the friend of England ; Her guards are her ships at sea ; But her beauty lies In her women's eyes, And her strength in her people free ! /So, Hurrah for merry England ! For the King and the free Men of England ! XXXV. WHY DOTH THE BOTTLE STAND? WHY doth the bottle stand, boys ? Let the glass run silent round ! Wine should go, As the blood doth flow, Its course, without pause or sound. Scorn not Wine ! Truth divine And Courage dwell with noble Wine. Send round the bottle quick, boys ! No reason ask nor pause ! Wine should run, Like a circling sun, By its own unquestioned laws. Scorn not Wine ! fyc. Fill to the beaded brims, boys, Let each glass, like a king, be crowned ! Drink, " Joy, and Wealth, And a mighty Health, To ourselves and the world around ! " /Scorn not Wine ! fyc. SONGS. 37 XXXVI. COUNT BALTHAZAR. SET TO MUSIC BY THB CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. " A famous man is Robin Hood ; But ' each land ' hath a thief as good j Then let us chant a passing stave In honor of the Hero brave ! " WORDSWORTH'S ROB ROY. COUNT BALTHAZAR reigns in his strong stone tower, Girt round by his iron men ; And his strength, like the terrible Tempest's power, Sweeps through each Alpine glen ! A hunter he zs, though a monarch grim He seems on his mountain throne ; But he hunts not the stag, nor the ermine slim, Nor the wolf, nor the eagle lone. He breedeth no cattle, he traineth no vine, He hath naught that is bought or sold : Yet his cellars are bursting with brave bright wine, And his coffers are crammed with gold. Whenever he lacketh or kine or corn He calls to his armed band ; And they hunt through the valleys, from night till morn, And beg for him, sword in hand ! 38 SONGS. So he drinks and he revels, till daylight gleams : But nothing is free from pain ! For a Demon e'er watches his blood-red dreams, (Whose laughter is deep As the depths of sleep,) And scares him to life again ! So Balthazar lives, and so must he die, However the seasons roll ; The visions of guilt must haunt his eye, And the dread of the damned, his soul ! He arose, like a pillar of fire, whose head Is borne up by the raving blast : He will sink, (like the fire,) deserted, dead, And be trodden in dust, at last ! So, Down with the tower, the old stone tower ! And, down with the iron men ! Let 's summon our hearts, and unfetter our power, And cleanse out the robbers' den ! Where lieth their strength ? In a vague, false fame. Where based ? On our fear alone. Then let us build a phantom, and forge us a name, In a foundery of our own ! SONGS. 39 XXXVIL WHEN FRIENDS LOOK DARK AND COLD. SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS. WHEN friends look dark and cold, And maids neither laugh nor sigh, And your enemy proffers his gold, Be sure there is danger nigh. O, then ' is time to look forward, And back, like the hunted hare ; And to watch, as the little bird watches, When the falcon is in the air. When the trader is scant of words, And your neighbor is rough or shy, And your banker recalls his hoards, Be sure there is danger nigh. O, then ' is time to look forward, fyc. Whenever a change is wrought, And you know not the reason why, In your own or an old friend's thought, Be sure there is evil nigh. O, then 'f is time to look forward, fyc. 40 SONGS. XXXVIII. THE NIGHT IS CI-OSING ROUND, MOTHER. THE night is closing round, Mother ! The shadows are thick and deep ! All round me they cling, like an iron ring, And I cannot, cannot sleep ! Ah, Heaven ! thy hand, thy hand, Mother ! Let me lie on thy nursing breast ! They have smitten my brain with a piercing pain But 't is gone ! and I now shall rest. I could sleep a long, long sleep, Mother ! So, seek me a calm, cool bed : You may lay me low, in the virgin snow, With a moss-bank for my head. I would lie in the wild, wild woods, Mother ! Where naught but the birds are known ; Where nothing is seen, but the branches green, And flowers on the greensward strewn. No lovers there witch the air, Mother ! Nor mock at the holy sky : One may live and be gay, like a summer day, And at last, like the Summer, die ! SONGS. 41 XXXIX. -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 ! 42 SONGS. XL. THE WOOD-THRUSH. WHITHER hath the Wood-thrush flown, From our greenwood bowers ? Wherefore builds he not again, Where the white-thorn flowers ? Bid him come ! for on his wings, The sunny year he bringeth ; And the heart unlocks its springs, Wheresoe'er he singeth. Lover-like the creature waits, And when Morning soareth, All his little soul of song Tow'rd the dawn he poureth. Sweet one, why art thou not heard Now, where woods are stillest ? O, come back ! and bring with thee, Whatsoe'er thou wiliest ; Laughing thoughts, delighting songs,' Dreams of azure hours, Something, nothing ; all we ask Is to see thee ours ! 'T is enough that thou shouldst sing For thy own pure pleasure ! 'T is enough that thou hast once Sweetened human leisure ! SONGS. 43 XLL MIDNIGHT RHYMES. SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. O, 'x is merry when stars are bright To sing, as you pace along, Of the things that are dreamt by night, To the motion of some old song : For the fancy of mortals teems, Whether they wake or sleep, With figures, that shine like dreams, Then die in the darkness deep ! O, merry are Christmas limes. And merry the belfry chimes; But the merriest things That a man e'er sings Are his Midnight Rhymes ! 'T is night when the usurers feel That their money is thrice repaid ; 'T is night when adorers kneel, By scores, to the sleeping maid ; 'T is night when the author deems That his critics are all at bay, And the gamester regains in dreams The gold that he lost by day. 0, merry are Christmas times, fyc. At night, both the sick and the lame Abandon their world of care ; And the creature that droops with shame Forgetteth her old despair ! The boy on the raging deep Laughs loud that the skies are clear ; 44 SONGS. And the murderer turns, in sleep, And dreams that a pardon 's near ! 0, merry are Christmas times, SfC. At night, all wrongs are right, And all perils of life grow smooth ; Then why cometh the fierce daylight, When fancy is bright as truth ? All hearts, 'tween the earth and the moon, Recover their hopes again : Ah, 't is pity so sweet a tune Should ever be jarred by pain ! Yet, merry are Christmas times, XLIL A LOVE SONG. GIVE me but thy heart, though cold ; I ask no more ! Give to others gems and gold ; But leave me poor ! Give to whom thou wilt thy smiles ; Cast o'er others all thy wiles ; But let thy tears flow fast and free, For me, with me ! Giv'st thou but one look, sweet heart ? A word, no more ? It is Music's sweetest part When lips run o'er ! 'T is a part I fain would learn, So, pr'ythee, here thy lessons turn, And teach me, to the close, All Love's pleasures, all its woes ! SONGS, 45 XLin. THE STRANGER. A STRANGER came to a rich man's door, And smiled on his mighty feast ; And away his brightest child he bore, And laid her toward the East. He came next spring, with a smile as gay, (At the time when the East wind blows,) And another bright creature he led away, With a cheek like a burning rose. And he came once more, when the spring was blue, And whispered the last to rest, And bore her away, yet nobody knew The name of the dreadful guest ! Next year, there was none but the rich man left, Left alone in his pride and pain, Who called on the Stranger, like one bereft, And sought through the land, in vain ! He came not : he never was heard nor seen Again ; (so the story saith :) But, wherever his terrible smile had been, Men shuddered, and talked of Death ! 46 SONGS. XLIV.-SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING. WHEN the wind blows In the sweet rose-tree, And the cow lows On the fragrant lea, And the stream flows All bright and free, 'T is not for thee, 't is not for me ; 'T is not for any one here, I trow : The gentle wind bloweth, The happy cow loweth, The merry stream floweth, For all below ! O the Spring ! the bountiful Spring ! She shineth and smileth on every thing. Where come the sheep ? To the rich man's moor. Where cometh sleep ? To the bed that 's poor. Peasants must weep, And kings endure ; That is a fate that none can cure : Yet Spring doeth all she can, I trow : She bringeth the bright hours, She weaveth the sweet flowers, She dresseth her bowers, For all below ! the Spring, Sfc. SONGS. 47 XLV. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BRIDAL. Now, what shady wreath wilt wear, Maiden, Maiden ? Bid them bind the veil with care, Round the sunshine of thy hair ! Let thy brow be free from scorn ; Let thine eye have gentle light, On the gentle marriage morn ; And so Good Night ! It is now the youth of May, Maiden, Maiden ! Choose thou, then, at blush of day, Buds and blossoms, not too gay ; And, behind their veiling sweets, Bashful be, 'midst all their light, When the tender lover greets ; And so Good Night ! Soon To-morrow will be here, Maiden, Maiden ! Then, as hopes aye mix with fears, Mix thou smiles with pearled tears ; So shall he who loves thee feel Thrice his first sweet, pure delight, And nearer to thy bosom steal ; And so Good Night ! 48 SONGS. XLVL A DEEP AND A MIGHTY SHADOW. A DEEP and a mighty shadow Across my heart is thrown, Like the cloud on a summer meadow, Where the Thunder-wind hath blown ! The wild-rose, Fancy, dieth, The sweet bird, Memory, flieth, And leaveth me alone, Alone with my hopeless Sorrow : No other mate I know ! I strive to awake To-morrow ; But the dull words will not flow ! I pray, but my prayers are driven Aside, by the angry Heaven, And weigh me down with woe ! I call on the Past, to lend me Its songs, to soothe my pain : I bid the dim Future send me A light from its eyes, in vain ! Naught comes ; but a shrill cry starteth From Hope, as she fast departeth ; " 1 go, and come not again ! " SONGS. 49 XL VII. BELSHAZZAR. BELSHAZZAR is King ! Belshazzar is Lord ! And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board : Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a flood Of the wine that man loveth runs redder than blood : Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth, And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth ; And the crowds all shout, Till the vast roofs ring, " All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king ! " " Bring forth," cries the Monarch, " the vessels of gold, Which my father tore down from the temples of old ; Bring forth, and we '11 drink, while the trumpets are blown, To the Gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone : Bring forth ! " and before him the vessels all shine, And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark wine ; Whilst the trumpets bray, And the cymbals ring, " Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king ! '-' Now what cometh look, look ! without menace, or call ? Who writes, with the Lightning's bright hand, on the wall ? What pierceth the king, like the point of a dart ? What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart ? 4 50 SONGS. " Chaldeans ! Magicians ! the letters expound ! " They are read, and Belshazzar is dead on the ground ! Hark ! The Persian is come On a conqueror's wing ; And a Mede 's on the throne of Belshazzar the king ! XLVIII. THE HEART-BROKEN. SET TO MUSIC BT THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. GENTLE Mother, do not weave Garlands for my forehead pale ! Unto hearts that e'er must grieve, What do crowns avail ? Tell me not of bridal flowers ! What are they when life is past ? Tell me not of happy hours, When they flee so fast ! Bind thy cypress round my heart ! Hide me in the mortal pall ! Show them, when all hopes depart, What sad things befall ! I am dead, a statue, left Pointing perils out unknown, Shorn of life, and love-bereft, All my youth o'erthrown ! All o'erthrown ! SONGS. 51 XLIX. A PHANTASY. FEED her with the leaves of Love, (Love, the rose, that blossoms here) ! Music, gently round her move ! Bind her to the cypress near ! Weave her round and round, With skeins of silken sound ! 'T is a little stricken deer, Who doth from the hunter fly, And comes here to droop, to die, Ignorant of her wound ! Soothe her with sad stories, O poet, till she sleep ! Dreams, come forth with all your glories ! Night, breathe soft and deep ! Music, round her creep ! If she steal away to weep, Seek her out, and, when you find her, Gentle, gentlest Music, wind her Round and round, Round and round, With your bands of softest sound ; Such as we, at nightfall, hear In the wizard forest near, When the charmed Maiden sings At the hidden springs ! 52 SONGS. I LIFE. WE are born ; we laugh ; we weep ; We love ; we droop ; we die ! Ah ! wherefore do we laugh or weep ? Why do we live, or die ? Who knows that secret deep ? Alas, not I ! Why doth the violet spring Unseen by human eye ? Why do the radiant seasons bring Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? Why do our fond hearts cling To things that die ? We toil, through pain and wrong ; We fight, and fly ; We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long, Stone-dead we lie. O life ! is all thy song " Endure and die ? " SONGS. PART THE SECOND. SONGS. PART THE SECOND, LI. THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL. How gallantly, how merrily We ride along the sea ! The morning is all sunshine, The wind is blowing free : The billows are all sparkling, And bounding in the light, Like creatures in whose sunny veins The blood is running bright. All nature knows our triumph : Strange birds about us sweep ; Strange things come up to look at us, The masters of the deep : 56 SONGS. In our wake, like any servant, Follows even the bold shark ; O, proud must be our Admiral Of such a bonny barque ! Proud, proud, must be our Admiral, (Though he is pale to-day,) Of twice five hundred iron men, Who all his nod obey ; Who 've fought for him and conquered, Who 've won, with sweat and gore, Nobility ! which he shall have Whene'er he touch the shore. O, would I were our Admiral, To order, with a word, To lose a dozen drops of blood, And straight rise up a lord ! I 'd shout e'en to yon shark, there, Who follows in our lee, " Some day, I '11 make thee carry me, Like lightning, through the sea." The Admiral grew paler, And paler as we flew : Still talked he to his officers, And smiled upon his crew ; And he looked up at the heavens, And he looked down on the sea, SONGS. 57 And at last he spied the creature, That kept following in our lee. He shook 't was but an instant For speedily the pride Ran crimson to his heart, Till all chances he defied : It threw boldness on his forehead ; Gave firmness to his breath ; And he stood like some grim warrior New risen up from death. That night, a horrid whisper Fell on us where we lay ; And we knew our old fine Admiral Was changing into clay ; And we heard the wash of waters, Though nothing could we see, And a whistle, and a plunge Among the billows in our lee ! Till dawn we watched the body In its dead and ghastly sleep, And next evening at sunset It was slung into the deep ! And never, from that moment, Save one shudder through the sea, Saw we (or heard) the shark That had followed in our lee ! 58 SONGS. LH.-HOME. (A DUET.) He. Dost thou love wandering? Whither wouldst thou go? Dream'st thou, sweet daughter, of a land more fair? Dost thou not love these aye-blue streams that flow ? These spicy forests? and this golden air? She. O, yes, I love the woods, and streams, so gay; And, more than all, O father, I love thee; Yet would I fain be wandering far away, Where such things never were, nor e'er shall be. He. Speak, mine own daughter with the sunbright locks ! To what pale, banished region wouldst thou roam ? She. O father, let us find our frozen rocks ! Let 's seek that country of all countries, Home ! He. Seest thou these orange flowers ? this palm that rears Its head up towards Heaven's blue and cloudless dome ? Sfie. I dream, I dream ; mine eyes are hid in tears : My heart is wandering round our ancient home. He. Why, then, we '11 go. Farewell, ye tender skies, Who sheltered us, when we were forced to roam ! She. On, on ! Let 's pass the swallow as he flies ! Farewell, kind land ! Now, father, now, for Home ! SONGS. 59 LIII. THE VINTAGE-SONG. . O THE merry vintage-time ! The merry, matchless vintage-time ! What can vie Beneath the sky With the merry, merry vintage-time ? What though summer birds have fled, Singing to some other clime ; We have tongues that music shed Still, and a song for vintage-time ! Come ! O'er the hills the moon is glancing ! Now 's the time for dancing, dancing ! Now 's the time, Now 's the time, The merry, merry vintage-time ! Now 's the happy vintage-time ! The happy, honored vintage-time ! E'en great Earth Doth mix in mirth With us, her sons, at vintage-time. Not a storm doth vex her brow, Flooding rain, nor frosty rime ; But the sunny Autumn now Laugheth out, " 'T is vintage-time." Come, 4*r. Praise, then, all the vintage-time, Children of the vintage-time ! Girls and boys Who know the joys Of the merry, fruitful vintage-time ! 60 SONGS. Leave to Spring the love-sweet flowers ; Winter still its song and rhyme ; Summer all her balmy hours ; Still we 've our dance at vintage-time ! Come, fyc. LIV. THE EVENING STAR. SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. THE Evening Star, the lover's star, The beautiful star, comes hither ! He steereth his barque Through the azure dark, And brings us the bright blue weather, Love ! The beautiful bright blue weather. The birds lie dumb, when the night stars come, And silence broods o'er the covers : But a voice now wakes In the thorny brakes, And singeth a song for lovers, Love ! A sad, sweet song for lovers ! It singeth a song, of grief and wrong, A passionate song for others ; Yet its own sweet pain Can never be vain, If it 'wakeneth love in others, Love ! It 'wakeneth love in others. SONGS. 61 LV.-THE WEAVER'S SONG. WEAVE, brothers, weave ! Swiftly throw The shuttle athwart the loom, And show us how brightly your flowers grow, That have beauty but no perfume ! Come, show us the rose, with a hundred dyes, The lily, that hath no spot ; The violet, deep as your truelove's eyes, And the little forget-me-not ! Sing, sing, brothers ! weave and sing ! ' T is good both to sing and to weave : ' T is belter to work than live idle : ' T is better to sing than grieve. Weave, brothers, weave ! Weave, and bid The colors of sunset glow ! Let grace in each gliding thread be hid ! Let beauty about ye blow ! Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine, And your hands both firm and sure, And Time nor chance shall your work untwine ; But all, like a truth, endure ! So, sing, brothers, SfC. Weave, brothers, weave ! Toil is ours ; But toil is the lot of men : 62 SONGS. One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers, One soweth the seed again ! There is not a creature, from England's king To the peasant that delves the soil, That knows half the pleasures the seasons bring, ' If he have not his share of toil ! So, sing, brothers, fyc. LVl. SLEEP ON. SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. SLEEP on ! The world is vain ; All grief, and sin, and pain : If there be a dream of joy, It comes in slumber, pretty boy ! So, sweet Sleep ! Hang upon his eyelids deep ; Show him all that cannot be, Ere thou dost flee ! Sleep on ! Let no bad truth Fall yet upon his youth : Let him see no thing unkind, But live a little longer blind ! O sweet Sleep ! Hang upon his eyelids deep ; Show him Love, without his wings, And all fair things ! SONGS. 63 LVIL LOVE AND MIRTH. WHAT song doth the cricket sing ? What news doth the swallow bring ? What doth laughing boyhood tell ? What calls out the marriage bell ? What say all ? Love and Mirth ! In the air, and in the earth : Very, very soft and merry Is the natural song of Earth. Mark the Morn, when first she springs Upwards on her golden wings ; Hark, to the soaring, soaring lark ! And the echoing forests, hark ! What say they ? Love and Mirth, fyc. With the leaves the apples wrestle ; In the grass the daisies nestle ; And the sun smiles on the wall ; Tell us, what 's the cause of all ? Mirth and Love ; Love and Mirth, fyc. Is it Mirth ? Then why will man Spoil the sweet song all he can ? Bid him, rather, aye rejoice, With a kind and a merry voice ! Bid him sing " Love and Mirth ! " To the air, and to the earth, fyc. 64 SONGS. LVIII. SONG OVER A CHILD. DREAM, Baby, dream ! The stars are glowing. Hear'st thou the stream ? 'T is softly flowing. All gently glide the Hours : Above, no tempest lowers : Below, are fragrant flowers In silence growing. Sleep, Baby, sleep, Till dawn to-morrow ! Why shouldst thou weep, Who know'st not sorrow ? Too soon come pains and fears ; Too soon a cause for tears : So from thy future years No sadness borrow ! Dream, Baby, dream ! Thine eyelids quiver. Know'st thou the theme Of yon soft river ? It saith, " Be calm, be sure, Unfailing, gentle, pure ; So shall thy life endure, Like mine, for ever ! " SONGS. 65 LIX. THE LANDSMAN'S SONG. SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. O, WHO would be bound to the barren Sea, If he could dwell on Land, Where his step is ever both firm and free, Where flowers arise, Like sweet girls' eyes, And rivulets sing Like birds in spring ? For me, I will take my stand On Land, on Land ! For ever and ever on solid Land ! I 've sailed on the riotous, roaring Sea, With an undaunted band : Yet my village home more pleaseth me, With its valley gay Where maidens stray, And its grassy mead Where the white flocks feed ; And so, I will take my stand On Land, on Land ! For ever and ever on solid Land ! Some swear they could die on the salt, salt Sea ! (But have they been loved on Land ?) Some rave of the Ocean in drunken glee, Of the music born On a gusty morn, 5 66 SONGS. When the tempest is waking, And billows are breaking, And lightning flashing, And the thick rain dashing, And the winds and the thunders Shout forth the sea-wonders ! Such things may give joy To a dreaming boy ; But for me, I will take my stand On Land, on Land ! For ever and ever on solid Land ! LX. PERDITA. SET TO MOSIC BY SIGNOR VERINI. THE nest of the dove is rifled ; Alas ! alas ! The dream of delight is stifled ; And all that was Of beauty and hope is broken ; But words will flee, Though truest were ever spoken : - Alas, for me ! His love was as fragrant ever, As flowers to bees ; His voice like the mournful river ; But streams will freeze ! Ah ! where can I fly, deceived ? Ah ! where, where rest ? I am sick, like the dove bereaved, And have no nest ! SONGS. 67 LXL LOVE THE POET, PRETTY ONE! LOVE the poet, pretty one ! He unfoldeth knowledge fair, Lessons of the earth and sun, And of azure air. He can teach thee how to reap Music from the golden lyre : He can shew thee how to steep All thy thoughts in fire. Heed not, though at times he seem Dark and still, and cold as clay : He is shadowed by his Dream ! But 't will pass away. Then bright fancies will he weave, Caught from air and heaven above : Some will teach thee how to grieve ; Others, how to love ! How from sweet to sweet to rove, How all evil things to shun : Should I not then whisper, " Love - Love the poet, pretty one " ? 68 SONGS. LXII. LUCY. LUCY is a golden girl ; But a man a man should woo her ! They who seek her shrink aback, When they should, like storms, pursue her. All her smiles are hid in light ; All her hair is lost in splendor ; But she hath the eyes of Night, And a heart that 's over-tender. Yet, the foolish suitors fly, (Is 't excess of dread or duty ?) From the starlight of her eye, Leaving to neglect her beauty ! Men by fifty seasons taught Leave her to a young beginner, Who, without a second thought, Whispers, wooes, and straight must win her. Lucy is a golden girl ! Toast her in a goblet brimming ! May the man that wins her wear On his heart the Rose of Women ! SONGS. 69 LXm. THE WOOING SONG. SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NECKOMM. O, PLEASANT is the fisher's life, By the waters streaming ; And pleasant is the poet's life, Ever, ever dreaming : And pleasant is the hunter's life, O'er the meadows riding : And pleasant is the sailor's life, On the seas abiding ! But, ! the merry life is wooing, is icooing ; Never overtaking, and always pursuing ! The hunter, when the chase is done, Laugheth loud and drinketh ; The poet, at the set of sun, Sigheth deep and thinketh : The sailor, though from sea withdrawn, Dreams he 's half seas over, The fisher dreameth of the dawn, But, what dreams the lover ? He dreams that the merry life is wooing, is wooing ; Never overtaking, and always pursuing ! Some think that life is very long, And murmur at the measure ; 70 SONGS. Some think it is a syren song, A short, false, fleeting pleasure : Some sigh it out in gloomy shades, Thinking nought, nor doing ; But we '11 ne'er think it gloomy, Maids ! Whilst there 's time for wooing. For, sure, the merry life is wooing, is wooing ; Never overtaking, and always pursuing ! LXIV. HERMIONE. THOU hast beauty bright and fair, Manner noble, aspect free, Eyes that are untouched by care : What then do we ask from thee ? Hermione, Hermione ? Thou hast reason quick and strong, Wit that envious men admire, And a voice, itself a song ! What then can we still desire ? Hermione, Hermione 1 Something thou dost want, O queen ! (As the gold doth ask alloy,) Tears, amidst thy laughter seen, Pity, mingling with thy joy. This is all we ask from thee, Hermione, Hermione ! SONGS. 71 LXV.-THE OWL. IN the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, The spectral Owl doth dwell ; Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour, But at dusk he 's abroad and well ! Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him ; All mock him outright, by day : But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, The boldest will shrink away ! O, when the nightfalls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then, is the reign of the Horned Owl ! And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, And loveth the wood's deep gloom ; And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold, She awaiteth her ghastly groom ? Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, As she waits in her tree so still ; But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, She hoots out her welcome shrill ! O when the moon shines, and dogs do howl .' Then, then, is the joy of the Horned Owl ! Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight ! The Owl hath his share of good : If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, He is lord in the dark greenwood ! 72 SONGS. Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate, They are each unto each a pride ; Thrice fonder perhaps, since a strange, dark fate Hath rent them from all beside ! So, when the nightfalls, and dogs do howl, Sing, Ho ! for the reign of the Horned Old ! We know not alway Who are kings by day, But the King of the night is the bold brown Owl ! LXVl. MARIAX. SPIRIT of the summer breeze ! Wherefore sleep'st thou in the trees ? Come, and kiss the maiden rose, That on Marian's bosom blows ! Come, and fawn about her hair ! Kiss the fringes of her eyes ! Ask her why she looks so fair, When she heedeth not my sighs ? Tell her, murmuring summer air, That her beauty 's all untrue ; Tell her, she should not seem fair, Unless she be gentle too ! SONGS. 73 LXVII. THE HUJIBER FERRY. BOATMAN, hither ! Furl your sail ! Row us o'er the Humber ferry ! Furl it close ! The blustering gale Seems as he would fain be merry. Pleasant is he, when in fun He blows about the bud or berry ; But his mirth we fain would shun, Out upon the Humber ferry ! Now, bold fisher, shall we go With thee, o'er the Humber river ? Hear'st thou how the blast doth blow, Seest thou how thy sail doth shiver ? Wilt thou dare (dismayed by nought) Wind and wave, thou bold sea-liver ? And shall we, whom love hath taught, Tremble at the rolling river ! Row us forth ! Unfurl thy sail ! What care we for tempests blowing ? Let us kiss the blustering gale ! Let us breast the waters flowing ! Though the North rush cold and loud, Love shall warm and make us merry ; Though the waves all weave a shroud, We will dare the Humber ferry ! 74 SONGS. . A REPOSE. SHE sleeps amongst her pillows soft, (A dove, now wearied with her flight,) And all around, and all aloft, Hang flutes and folds of virgin white : Her hair outdarkens the dark night, Her glance outshines the starry sky ; But now her locks are hidden quite, And closed is her fringed eye ! She sleepeth : wherefore doth she start ? She sigheth : doth she feel no pain ? None, none ! the Dream is near her heart ; The Spirit of sleep is in her brain. He cometh down like golden rain, Without a wish, without a sound ; He cheers the sleeper (ne'er in vain) Like May, when earth is winter-bound. All day within some cave he lies, Dethroned from his nightly sway, -r Far fading when the dawning skies Our souls with wakening thoughts array. Two Spirits of might doth man obey ; By each he 's wrought, from each he learns The one is Lord of life by day ; The other when starry Night returns. SONGS. 75 LXIX. THE LAKE HAS BURST. THE lake has burst ! The lake has burst ! Down through the chasms the wild waves flee : They gallop along With a roaring song, Away to the eager awaiting sea ! Down through the valleys, and over the rocks, And over the forests the flood runs free ; And wherever it dashes, The oaks and the ashes Shrink, drop, and are borne to the hungry sea ! The cottage of reeds and the tower of stone, Both shaken to ruin, at last agree ; And the slave and his master In one wide disaster Are hurried like weeds to the scornful sea ! The sea-beast he tosseth his foaming mane ; He bellows aloud to the misty sky, And the sleep-buried Thunder Awakens in wonder, And the Lightning opens her piercing eye ! There is death above, there is death around, There is death wheresoever the waters be, There is nothing now doing But terror and ruin, On earth, and in air, and the stormy sea ! 76 SONGS. LXX. SING, MAIDEN, SING! SING, Maiden, sing ! Mouths were made for singing ; Listen, Songs thou 'It hear Through the wide world ringing ; Songs from all the birds, Songs from winds and showers, Songs from seas and streams, Even from sweet flowers. Hear'st thou the rain, How it gently falleth ? Hearest thou the bird Who from forest calleth ? Hearest thou the bee O'er the sunflower ringing ? Tell us, Maiden, now Shouldst thou not be singing ? Hear'st thou the breeze Round the rose-bud sighing ? And the small, sweet rose Love to love replying ? So shouldst thou reply To the prayer we 're bringing : So that bud, thy mouth, Should burst forth in singing ! SONGS. 77 LXXT. MAUREEN. THE cottage is here, as of old I remember ; The pathway is worn, as it ever hath been : On the turf-piled hearth there still lives a bright ember ; But, where is Maureen ? The same pleasant prospect still shineth before me, The river, the mountain, the valley of green, And Heaven itself (a bright blessing !) is o'er me ! But, where is Maureen ? Lost ! Lost ! Like a dream that hath come and departed, (Ah, why are the loved and lost ever seen?) She hath fallen, hath flown, with a lover false-hearted ; So, mourn for Maureen ! And She, who so loved her, is slain (the poor mother), Struck dead, in a day, by a shadow unseen ! And the home we now loved is the home of another, And lost is Maureen ! Sweet Shannon ! a moment by thee let me ponder ; A moment look back at the things that have been ; Then, away to the world where the ruined ones wander, To look for Maureen ! 78 SONGS. LXXIL UNEQUAL LOVE. "Wailing for his dieraon lover." WILT not eat with me, my bride ? Wilt not drink my amorous wines ? Dainty meats are by thy side : Mark how bright the Rhenish shines ! Come, be kind ! What ills betide thee 1 Is not he thou lov'st beside thee 1 Wherefore sigh'st thou, maiden mine ? Must thou to the forest haste ? Nothing have I, meats nor wine, That thy fairy lips may taste ? Speak, love ! must I vainly woo thee ? I, who gave my heart unto thee 1 Dark one, thou hast bid me press Human love upon thy lips : But thou yield'st a cold caress, And thy love is in eclipse ! Cold and dim whilst I am burning ! In Love, is there NO returning 1 I have loved thee, sought, pursued, Won thee from thy charmed springs. O, that I, instead, had wooed The humblest girl that laughs and sings ! From the dust thy beauty won me ; But, sweet Love ! He hath undone me ! SONGS. 79 Lxxm. WINE. SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER UEUKOMM. I LOVE Wine ! Bold bright Wine ! That maketh the Spirit both dance and shine ! Others may care For water fare ; But give me Wine ! Ancient Wine ! Brave old Wine ! How it around the heart doth twine ! Poets may love The stars above ; But I love Wine ! Nought but Wine ! Noble Wine, Strong, and sound, and old, and fine. What can scare The devil Despair, Like brave bright Wine ? O brave Wine ! Rare old Wine ! Once thou wast deemed a God divine ! Bad are the rhymes, And bad the times, That scorn old Wine ! So, brave Wine ! Dear old Wine ! Morning, Noon, and Night I 'm thine ! Whatever may be, I '11 stand by thee, Immortal Wine ! 80 SONGS. LXXIV. SING! WHO MINGLES WITH MY LAYS? SING ! who mingles with my lays ? Maiden of the primrose days ! Sing with me, and I will shew All that thou in spring shouldst know, All the names of all the flowers, What to do with primrose hours ! Sing ! who mingles with my song ? Soldier in the battle strong ! Sing, and thee I '11 music teach, Such as thunders on the beach, When the waves run mad and white, Like a warrior in the fight ! Sing ! who loves the music tender ? Widow, who hath no defender ! Orphan ! Scholar ! Mother wild, Who hast loved (and lost) a child ! Maiden, dreaming of to-morrow ! Let us sing and banish sorrow ! Come ! Sweet music hath a smart, And a balm for every heart ! SONGS- 81 LXXV. I LOVE MY LOVE, BECAUSE HE LOVES ME. SET TO MDSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. MAN, man loves his steed, For its blood or its breed, For its odor the rose, for its honey the bee, His own haughty beauty From pride or from duty ; But I love my love, because he loves me. O, my love has an eye, Like a star in the sky, And breath like the sweets from the hawthorn tree ; And his heart is a treasure, Whose worth is past measure ; And yet he hath given all all to me ! It crowns me with light In the dead of the night, It brightens my journey by land and sea ; And thus, while I wander, I sigh and grow fonder, For my love ever grows with his love for me. Why didst thou depart, Thou sweet bird of my heart ? O, come back to my bosom, and never flee : I never will grieve thee, I '11 never deceive thee, But love thee for ever, as thou lov'st me. 6 82 SONGS. LXXVI. TALK NOT TO ME OF LOVE. TALK not to me of love ! The deer that dies Knows more of love than I, Who seek the skies. Strive not to bind my soul With chains of clay ! I scorn thy poor control ; Away, Away ! Now wherefore dost thou weave Thy falsehoods strange ? Sad words may make me grieve, But never change. A snake sleeps in thine eye ; It stirs thine heart : Why dost thou vainly sigh ? Depart, Depart ! Thy dreams, when Fortune flew, Did elsewhere range : But love is always true, And knows no change, More firm in want, in strife, Ay, firm through crime, He looketh down on life, The star of Time ! SONGS. 83 LXXVII. MIRIAM. SET TO MDSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. (Recitative.) DARKNESS and God's great wrath for many an age Have lain on Israel ! O what nights of woe ! What dreams of long and lonely banishment ! Spring cometh round, and Summer sweet returned! Still to our father's land ; But where are WE ? Still Siloa murmurs ; but we hear her not ! Still the rose opens, and the lilies pale Are born beneath the sun : but we have lost All suns, all seasons, music, fragrance, flowers ! Peace, Darkness hath her share of good, like day : Sleep and the world of dreams belong to her ; And, in our long, dark exile, we have stars That light us onwards, and their beauty shed Alone upon the sons of Israel ! Look, where one shines ; 't is Miriam ! Judah's child, Her pride, her glory ! Statelier than the palm, Swift as the roe, dowered with love, she comes ! And thus I celebrate her grace in song ! (Mr.} O, fairer than the fairest of the flowers ! O, sweeter than the bud when it blows ! 84 SONGS. O, brighter than the Summer when it showers Its riches on the red, red rose ! Come, Shew us that the color of the sky Still lives in the Hebrew's eye, Miriam ! O, shew us there is truth in thy story ; That thy country is worthy of her fame ! Reappear, like the shadow of her glory ! Reappear, like the Spirit of her name ! Come, Shew us all the starriness that lies In the night of the Hebrew's eyes, Miriam ! Look ! Look ! where a Spirit, like the lightning, Comes flashing from her dark, deep gaze ! Is the tempest e'er more terrible or blighting, in The strength of its storm-bright days ? Quick ! Shew us all the terror that may lie In the fash of a Hebrew' 's eye, Miriam ! Our pride, our glory, Miriam ! SONGS. LXXVIII. BABYLON. SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS. (Recitative.) PAUSE in this desert ! Here, men say, of old Belshazzar reigned, and drank from cups of gold ; Here, to his hideous idols, bowed the slave, And here God struck him dead ! Where lies his grave ? 'T is lost ! His brazen gates ? his soaring towers, From whose dark tops men watched the starry hours ? All to the dust gone down ! The desert bare Scarce yields an echo when we question " Where ? " The lonely herdsman seeks in vain the spot ; And the black wandering Arab knows it not. No brick, nor fragment lingereth now, to tell Where Babylon (mighty city !) rose and fell ! (.iir.) O City, vast and old ! Where, where is thy grandeur fled ? The stream that around thee rolled Still rolls in its ancient bed ! Bui where, 0, where art THOU gone ) Babylon ! Babylon ! The Giant, when he dies, Still leaveth his bones behind, SONGS. To shrink in the win,ter skies, And whiten beneath the wind ! But where, O, where art Taoc gone ? O Babylon I O Babylon ! Thou liv'st ! for thy name still glows, A light in the desert skies ; As the fame of the hero grows Thrice trebled because he dies ! Babylon ! O Babylon ! LXXIX HER LARGE, DARK, LUMINOUS EYES ARE ON M E. HER large, dark, luminous eyes are on me ! I cannot fly, I cannot move ! The beauty that in boyhood won me Wins me still, to look and love ! The tongue that wound its music 'round me, And might have charmed aside all pain, Again all bare and weak hath found me, And stings me, to the heart, again ! O Beauty, who my soul subdueth ! What mean the lightnings of thine eye ? Why is it that thy scorn pursueth My love, yet leaves it not to die ? Sweet Music, cease ! Bright Eyes, all beaming With light that makes me mad, ah, close ! Give back my colder, calmer dreaming ! Give back my dull, dark, old repose ! SONGS. 87 LXXX. THE REMONSTRANCE. THOU 'LT take me with thee, my love, my love ? Wherever thou 'rt forced by fate to move ? Over the land, or over the sea? Thou know'st't is the same delight to me. What say'st thou, dear ? Thy bride is here, All ready to live and die with thee. Her heart icas in the song ; It murmured in the measure ; It touched the music, all along, With a grave, sweet pleasure. Thou wilt not leave me behind, behind, To the malice of fortune, harsh and blind ? I '11 follow thy call, as a bird would flee, And sing or be mute as thou biddest me. W 7 hat say'st thou, dear, To my fond, fond fear ? Thou canst not banish thy love from thee ! Her heart was in the song ; It murmured in the measure ; It touched the music, all along, With a grave, sweet pleasure. What say'st thou, my soldier, my love, my pride : Thy answer ? What, was I not lorn thy bride ? From my cradle e'er cherished for love and thee, And dar'st thou now banish or bid me flee ? 88 SONGS. Smil'st thou at my fear ? Ah, then, my dear, I know I may love live die with thee ! Her heart was in the song ; It murmured in the measure ; It touched the music, all along, With a grave, sweet pleasure. LXXXI. KILL THE LOVE THAT WINDS AROUND THEE. KILL the love that winds around thee With its snake-like, death-like twine ! Where 's the guardian steel that bound thee ? Where are all thy gifts divine ? Where is wisdom ? Where is wine ? Where 's the sad, dark truth of story ? Where the Muse's mighty line ? Where the fame that burned before thee ? What is love, but life deformed From its grand original aim ? Hero into slave transformed ? Worlds lost at a single game ? Whose the peril, whose the shame, Shouldst thou die in love's fond slavery ? Rise ! Earth 's nought without its fame ! Rise ! Life 's nought without its bravery ! SONGS. 89 LXXXII. WHAT SAY THE CLOUDS ON THE HILL AND PLAIN? WHAT say the clouds on the hill and plain ? " We come, we go." What say the springs of the dreaming brain ? " We shrink, we flow." What say the maids in their changeful hours ? " We laugh, we cry." What say the budding and fading flowers ? " We live, we die." And thus all things go ranging, From riddle to riddle changing, From day into night, from life into death, And no one knows why, my song saith. A fable is good, and a truth is good, And loss, and gain ; And the ebb and the flood, and the black pine wood, And the vast, bare plain ; To wake and to sleep, and to dream of the deep, Are good, say I ; And 't is good to laugh and 't is good to weep ; But who knows why ? Yet thus all things go ranging, SfC, We cumber the earth for a hundred years ; We learn, we teach ; We fight amidst perils, and hopes, and fears, Fame's rock to reach. 90 SONGS. We boast that our fellows are sages wrought In toil and pain ; Yet the common lesson by Nature taught Doth vex their brain ! 0, all things here go ranging, Sfc. LXXXIIL A DILEMMA. WHICH is the maiden I love best ? Twenty now are buzzing round me ; Three in their milk-white arms have wound me, Gently, yet I feel no rest ! One hath showered her black locks o'er me, Ten kneel on the ground before me, Casting forth such beams of blue, That I 'm pierced, O, through and through ! Bacchus ! Gods ! what can I do ? Which must I love best ? Tell me (ah, more gently take me, Sweet one, in thy warm white arms !) Tell me, which will ne'er forsake me Thorough all life's ills and harms ? Is it she, whose blood 's retreating From that forehead crowned with pride ? Is it she, whose pulse is beating Full against my unarmed side ? What do all these things betide ? Strong my doubts grow, strong, and stronger Quick ! give answer to my call ! If ye pause a moment longer, I shall love ye ALL ! SONGS. LXXXIV. THE BEGGAR'S SONG. I AM a merry beggar, A beggar I was born, Tossed about the wild world, From evening till morn ; A plaything of the tempest, A brother of the night, A conqueror, a conjurer, When 't is merry star-light ! O, nothing can withstand me, Whenever I do stoop, From the warm heart of the housewife To the chicken in the coop ; From the linen of the lady To the larder of the knight, All come when I do conjure, In the merry star-light ! I pay no tithes to parson, Though I follow like his clerk ; For he takes his tenths by daylight, I take mine in the dark. I pay the king no window-tax ; From some it may be right, But all I do beneath the blue Is by merry star-light ! I roam from lane to common, From city unto town, And I tell a merry story, To gentleman or clown : 91 92 SONGS. Each gives me bed or victuals, Or ale that glitters bright, Or I contrive to borrow them By merry star-light ! O, the tradesman he is rich, Sirs, The farmer well to pass, The soldier he 's a lion, The alderman 's an ass ; The courtier he is subtle, Sirs, And the scholar he is bright ; But who, like me, is ever free In the merry star-light ? LXXXV. TO SOPHIE. WILT thou be a nun, Sophie ? Nothing but a nun ? . Is it not a better thing With thy friends to laugh and sing ? To be loved and sought ? To be wooed and won ? Dost thou love the shadow, Sophie, Better than the sun ? I 'm a poor lay -brother, Sophie ; Yet, I this may say, Thou hadst better bear with love, Than dwell here, a prisoned dove, Weeping life away. O, I'd bear love's pangs, rather, Fifty times a day ! SONGS. 93 LXXXVI. BUILD UP A COLUMN TO BOLIVAR! BUILD up a column to Bolivar! Build it under a tropic star ! Build it high as his mounting fame ! Crown its head with his noble name ! Let the letters tell, like a light afar, " This is the column of Bolivar ! " Soldier in war, in peace a man, Did he not all that a hero can ? Wasting his life for his country's care, Laying it down with a patriot prayer, Shedding his blood like the summer rain, Loving the land, though he loved in vain ! Man is a creature, good or ill, Little or great, at his own strong will ; And lie grew good, and wise, and great, Albeit he fought with a tyrant fate, And showered his golden gifts on men Who paid him in basest wrongs again ! Raise the column to Bolivar ! Firm in peace, and fierce in war ! Shout forth his noble, noble name ! Shout till his enemies die, in shame ! Shout till Columbia's woods awaken, Like seas by a mighty tempest shaken, 94 SONGS. Till pity, and praise, and great disdain, Sound like an Indian hurricane ! Shout, as ye shout in conquering war, While ye build the column to Bolivar ! LXXXVII. THE FAREWELL OF THE SOLDIER. I LOVE thee, I love thee, Far better than wine, But the curse is above me ; Thou 'It never be mine ! As the blade wears the scabbard, The billow the shore, So sorrow doth fret me For evermore. Fair beauty, I leave thee, To conquer my heart : I '11 see thee, I '11 bless thee, And then depart. Let me take, ere I vanish, One look of thine eyes, One smile for remembrance, For life soon flies ! And now for the fortune That hangeth above ; And to bury in battle My dream of love ! SONGS. 95 LXXXVIII. THE NIGHTSHADE. TREAD aside from my starry bloom ! I arn the nurse, who feed the tomb (The tomb, my child) With dainties piled, Until it grows strong as a tempest wild. Trample not on a virgin flower ! I am the maid of the midnight hour ; I bear sweet sleep To those who weep, And lie on their eyelids dark and deep. Tread not thou on my snaky eyes ! I am the worm that the weary prize, The Nile's soft asp, That they strive to grasp, And one that a queen has loved to clasp ! Pity me ! I am she whom man Hath hated since ever the world began ; I soothe his brain In the night of pain, But at morning he waketh, and all is vain ! 96 SONGS. LXXXIX. TRUE LOVE. Is 'T true the false, poor beauty flies From thee ? O, 't is well, 't is right ! My love shall now adorn thine eyes With brightness like the unclouded night ! The poet sheds, on herb and flower, His fancies, till they breathe and shine ; And shall J, in thy drooping hour, Neglect to hallow aught of thine 1 Love should flow along, Singing like a gentle river, Its saddest still its sweetest song, For ever, for ever ! Come to me, dearer, fairer far, Than when men's smiles did round thee fawn ! Look on me, as the last pale star Looks round upon the glowing dawn ! Yet, fly not ! Stay, and smile, sweet heart, On whate'er chance may now befall ; My love, though every good depart, Shall make thee dear amends for all ! True love reigns on high, Like the constant stars, that quiver, And look bright from every sky, For ever, for ever ! SONGS. 97 XC.-SONG OF THE OUTCAST. I WAS born on a winter's morn, Welcomed to life with hate and scorn, Torn from a famished mother's side, Who left me here, with a laugh, and died ; Left me here, with the curse of life, To be tossed about in the burning strife, Linked to nothing, but shame and pain, Echoing nothing, but man's disdain ; O, that I might again be born, With treble my strength of hate and scorn ! I was born by a sudden shock, Born by the blow of a ruffian sire, Given to air, as the blasted rock Gives out the reddening, roaring fire. My sire was stone ; but my dark blood Ran its round like a fiery flood, Rushing through every tingling vein, And flaming ever at man's disdain ; Ready to give back, night or morn, Hate for hate, and scorn for scorn ! They cast me out, in my hungry need, (A dog, whom none would own nor feed,) Without a home, without a meal, And bade me go forth to slay and steal ! 7 98 SONGS. What wonder, God ! had my hands been red With the blood of a host in secret shed ! But no ! I fought on the free sea-wave, And perilled my life for my plunder brave, And never yet shrank, in nerve or breath, But struck, as the pirate strikes, to death ! XCI. TO A FLOWER. DAWN, gentle flower, From the morning earth ! We will gaze and wonder At thy wondrous birth ! Bloom, gentle flower ! Lover of the light, Sought by wind and shower, Fondled by the night ! Fade, gentle flower ! All thy white leaves close ; Having shewn thy beauty, Time 't is for repose. Die, gentle flower, In the silent sun ! So, all pangs are over, All thy tasks are done ! Day hath no more glory, Though he soars so high ; Thine is all man's story, Live, and love, and die ! SONGS. 99 XCIL FORBIDDEN LOVE. I LOVE thee ! O, the strife, the pain, The fiery thoughts that through me roll ! I love thee ! Look, again, again ! O Stars ! that thou couldst read my soul. I would thy bright, bright eye could pierce The crimson folds that hide my heart, Then wouldst thou find the serpent fierce, That stings me and will not depart ! Look love upon me with thine eyes ! Yet, no, men's evil tongues are nigh : Look pity, then, and with thy sighs Waste music on me till I die ! Yet, love not ! sigh not ! Turn (thou must) Thy beauty from me, sweet and kind ; 'T is fit that I should burn to dust, To death, because I am not blind ! I love thee, and I live ! The Moon Who sees me from her calm above, The Wind who weaves her dim soft tune About me, know how much I love ! Nought else, save Night and the lonely Hour, E'er heard my passion wild and strong : Even thou yet deem'st not of thy power, Unless thou read'st aright my song ! 100 SONGS. XC1II.-A BRIDAL UIRGE. WEAVE no more the marriage chain ! All unmated is the lover ; Death has ta'en the place of Pain ; Love doth call on love in vain : Life and years of hope are over ! No more want of marriage bell ! No more need of bridal favor ! Where is she to wear them well ? You beside the lover tell ! Gone with all the love he gave her ! Paler than the stone she lies : Colder than the winter's morning ! Wherefore did she thus despise (She with pity in her eyes) Mother's care, and lover's warning ? Youth and beauty, shall they not Last beyond a brief to-morrow ? No : a prayer and then forgot ! This the truest lover's lot ; - This the sum of human sorrow ! SONGS. 101 XCIV. THE CONVICT'S FAREWELL. A BOAT is rowed along the sea, Full of souls as it may be ; Their dress is coarse, their hair is shorn, And every squalid face forlorn Is full of sorrow, and hate, and scorn ! What is 't ? It is the Convict Boat, That o'er the waves is forced to float, Bearing its wicked burden o'er The ocean, to a distant shore : Man scowls upon it ; but the sea (The same with fettered as with free) Danceth beneath it heedlessly ! Slowly the boat is borne along ; Yet they who row are hard and strong, And well their oars keep time To one who sings (and clanks his chain, The better thus to hide his pain) A bitter, banished rhyme ! He sings : and all his mates in woe Chaunt sullen chorus as they go ! 102 SONGS. SONG. Row us on, a felon band, Farther out to sea, Till we lose all sight of land, And then we shall be free ! Row us on, and loose our fetters ; Yeo ! the boat makes way : Let 's say " Good bye " unto our betters, And, hey for a brighter day ! CHORUS. Row us fast ! Row its fast ! Trial 's o'er and sentence past : Here 's a whistle for those who tried to Hind MS, And a curse on all we leave behind us ! Farewell, juries, jailors, friends, (Traitors to the close !) Here the felon's danger ends. Farewell, bloody foes ! Farewell, England ! We are quitting Now thy dungeon doors: Take our blessing, as we 're flitting, " A curse upon thy shores ! " Farewell, England, honest nurse Of all our wants and sins ! SONGS. 103 What to thee 's the felon's curse ? What to thee who wins ? Murder thriveth in thy cities, Famine through thine isle : One may cause a dozen ditties, But t' other scarce a smile. Farewell, England, tender soil, Where babes who leave the breast From morning into midnight toil, That pride may be proudly drest ! Where he who 's right and he who swerveth Meet at the goal the same ; Where no one hath what he deserveth, Not even in empty fame ! So, fare thee well, our country dear ! Our last wish, ere we go, Is, May your heart be never clear From tax, nor tithe, nor woe ! May they who sow e'er reap for others, The hundred for the one ! May friends grow false, and twin-born brothers Each hate his Mother's son ! May pains and forms still fence the place Where justice must be bought ! So he who 's poor must hide his face, And he who thinks his thought ! 104 SONGS. May Might o'er Right be crowned the winner, The head still o'er the heart, And the Saint be still so like the Sinner, You '11 not know them apart ! May your traders grumble when bread is high, And your farmers when bread is low, And your pauper brats, scarce two feet high, Learn more than your nobles know ! May your sick have foggy or frosty weather, And your convicts all short throats, And your blood-covered bankers e'er hang together, And tempt ye with one pound notes ! And so, with hunger in your jaws, And peril within your breast, And a bar of gold to guard your laws, For those who pay the best ; Farewell to England's woe and weal ! . For our betters, so bold and blythe, May they never want, when they want a meal, A Parson to take their Tithe ! SONGS. 105 XCV. THE RHIXE. WE 'VE sailed through banks of green, Where the wild waves fret and quiver, And we 've down the Danube been, The dark, deep, thundering river ! We 've threaded the Elbe and Rhone, The Tyber and blood-died Seine, And have watched where the blue Garonne Goes laughing to meet the main : But what is so lovely, what is so grand, As the river that runs through Rhine-land ? On the Rhine-river were we born, 'Midst its flowers and famous wines, And we know that our country's morn With a treble-sweet aspect shines. Let other lands boast their flowers, Let other men dream wild dreams, Let them hope they 've a land like ours, And a stream like our stream of streams : Yet, what is half so bright or so grand, As the river that runs through Rhine-land ? Are we smit by the blinding sun, That fell on our tender youth ? Do we coward-like shrink and shun The thought-telling touch of Truth ? 106 SONGS. On our heads be the sin, then, set ! We '11 bear all the shame divine : But we '11 never disown the debt That we owe to our noble Rhine ! the Rhine ! the Rhine ! the broad and the grand, Is the river that runs through Rhine-land ! XCVI. SWEET FRIEND, WHERE SLEEPS THY SONG? SWEET friend ! where sleeps thy song ? Ah, wherefore hath it lain so long In idle slumbers ? Quick thou, the ancient bondage break, And bid its dreaming soul awake In airy numbers ! Bid it burst forth, like Spring, When first the youthful rivers sing, The small, bright river, That runneth laughing from the earth, And thinketh, in its new-born mirth, To live for ever ! Bid it come forth, like Spring, When brooks and trees their music bring, And fields their flowers ; And we will hearken all, and hoard Thy sweet, sweet thoughts, like riches stored, For after hours ! SONGS. 107 XCVII. THE HIRLAS HORN. FILL high, fill high the Hirlas horn, Rimmed, with sunlight, like the morn ! Deep, and vast, and fit to drown All the troubles of a crown ; Deep, and vast, and crowned with mead, 'T is a cup for kings indeed, Full of courage, full of worth, Making man a god on earth ! Warriors, Heroes, Cambrian-born, Drink, from the Hirlas horn ! Hide with foam the golden tip ; Make it rich for a prince's lip ! Here 's to the fame of Roderick dead ! Bards ! why do your harps not shed Music ? Come, a mighty draught To dead Roderick's name be quaffed ! Tell us all the hero won, All he did, from sun to sun ! Bards, and Heroes, Cambrian-born, Drink, from the Hirlas horn ! Fill the horn to Madoc's name, First in the mighty race of fame, Eagle-hearted, eagled-eyed, All hearts shuddered when he died ! Yet, why so ? for Tudor rose Like a lion upon our foes ; 108 SONGS. Like the wild, storm-smitten ocean, When he puts his strength in motion ! Come, brave Spirits, Cambrian-born, Drink, from the Hirlas horn ! Cambrian people Cambrian mountains, Back into your wizard fountains ' (Where the Druid seers are dwelling) Shout unto the crowned Llewellin ! Patriot ! Hero ! Monarch ! Friend ! Wreathed with virtues without end ! First of men 'tween Earth and Sky ! The sword and the shield of Liberty ! Drink, all Spirits, Cambrian-born, Drink to the good, great crowned Llewellin Drink, from the Hirlas horn ! XCVIIL COME! LET US GO TO THE LAND. SET TO MUSIC BY SIONOR VERINI. COME, let us go to the land Where the violets grow ! Let 's go thither, hand in hand, Over the waters, over the snow, To the land where the sweet, sweet violets blow ! There, in the beautiful South, Where the sweet flowers lie, Thou shalt sing, with thy sweeter mouth, Under the light of the evening sky, That Love never fades, though violets die ! SONGS. 109 XCIX THE LEVELLER. THE king he reigns on a throne of gold, Fenced round by his " power divine " ; The baron he sits in his castle old, Drinking his ripe red wine : But below, below, in his ragged coat, The beggar he tuneth a hungry note, And the spinner is bound to his weary thread, And the debtor lies down with an aching head. So the world goes ! So the stream Jlou-s ! Yet there is a fellow, ichom nobody knows, Who maketh all free On land and sea, And forceth the rich like the poor to flee ! The lady lies down in her warm, white lawn, And dreams of her pearled pride ; The milkmaid sings, to the wild-eyed dawn, Sad songs on the cold hill-side : And the Saint he leaves (while he prattles of faith) Good deeds to the sinner, as scandal saith, And the scholar he bows to the face of brass, And the wise man he worships the golden ass ! So the world goes, $c. 110 SONGS. C. THE SECRET OF SINGING. LADY, sing no more ! Silence all is vain, Till the heart be touched, lady, And give forth its pain. 'T is a hidden lyre, Cherished near the sun, O'er whose witching wire, lady, Faery fingers run. Pity comes in tears, From her home above, Hope and sometimes Fears, lady, And the wizard, Love ! Each doth search the heart, To its utmost springs, And when they depart, lady, Then the Spirit sings ! SONGS, &c. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS PART THE THIRD. CI. THE FIGHT OF RAVENNA. HE is bound for the wars, He is armed for the fight, With lion-like sinews, And the heart of a knight ; Alt hidden in steel, Like the sun in a cloud, And he calls for his charger, Who neigheth aloud ; And he calls for his page, Who comes forth like the light ; And they mount and ride off, For the Brescian fight. 8 114 SONGS. Count Gaston de Foix Is the heir of Narbonne, But his page is an orphan, Known, linked unto none ; The master is young, But as bold as the blast ; The servant all tender, Too tender to last ; A bud that was born For the summer-soft skies, But, left to wild winter, Unfoldeth, and dies ! " Come forward, my young one, Ride on by my side ; What, child, wilt thou quell The Castilian pride ? " Thus speaks the gay soldier, His heart in his smile, But his page blushes deep, Was it anger ? the while. Was it anger ? Ah, no : For the tender dark eye Saith, " Master, for thee I will live, I will die ! " They speed to the field, Storm-swift in their flight, SONGS. 115 And Brescia falleth, Like fruit in a blight ; Scarce a blow for a battle, A shout for her fame ; All 's lost, given up To the sound of a name ! But Ravenna hath soldiers Whose hearts are more bold, Whose wine is all Spanish, Whose pay is all gold. So he turns, with a laugh Of contempt for his foe, And now girdeth his sword For a weightier blow. Straight forward he rideth Till night 's in the sky, When the page and the master Together must lie. Where loiters the page ? Ha ! he hangeth his head, And with forehead like fire He shunneth the bed. " Now rest thee, my weary one ; Drown thee in sleep ! The great sun himself Lieth down in the deep ; 116 SONGS. The beast on his pasture, The bird on his bough, The lord and the servant Are slumberers now." " I am wont," sighed the page, " A long watching to keep ; But my lord shall lie down While I charm him to sleep." Soon (cased in his armor) Down lieth the knight, And the page he is tuning His cittern aright. At last, through a voice That is tender and low, The melody mourns Like a stream at its flow, Sad, gentle, uncertain, As the life of a dream ; And thus the page singeth, With love for his theme : SONG. 1. THERE lived a lady, long ago ; Her heart was sad and dark, ah, me ! Dark with a single secret woe, That none could ever see ! SONGS. 1 17 2. She left her home, she lost her pride, Forgot the jeering world, ah, me ! And followed a knight, and fought, and died, All for the love of chivalry ! 3. She died, and when in her last dull sleep She lay all pale and cold, ah, me ! They read of a love as wild and deep As the dark, deep sea ! The song 's at an end ! But the singer, so young, Still weeps at the music That fell from his tongue : His hands are enclasped ; His cheeks are on fire ; And his black locks, unloosened, Lie mixed with the wire : But his lord he reposes As calm as the night, Until dawn cometh forth With her summons of light : Then onwards they ride Under clouds of the vine ; Now silent, now singing Old stories divine ; Now resting awhile, Near the cool of a stream, 118 SONGS. Now wild for the battle ; Now lost in a dream : At last they are threading The forest of pines, And Ravenna beleaguered By chivalry shines ! # * * Ravenna ! Ravenna ! Now " God for the right ! " For the Gaul and the Spaniard Are full in the fight. French squadrons are charging, Some conquer, some reel ; Wild trumpets are braying Aloud for Castile ! Each cannon that roareth Bears blood on its sound, And the dead and the dying Lie thick on the ground. Now shrieks are the music That 's borne on the gust, And the groan of the war-horse Who dies in the dust : Now Spaniards are cheered By the " honor " they love ; Now France by the flower That bloometh above ; And, indeed, o'er the riot, The steam, and the cloud, SONGS. 119 Slill the Oriflamme floateth, The pride of the proud ! What ho ! for King Louis ! What ho ! for Narbonne ! Come, soldiers ! 't is Gaston Who leadeth ye on ! 'T is Gaston, your brother, Who waveth his hand ; Who fights, as ye fight, For the vine-covered land f 'T is Gaston, 't is Gaston, The last of his name, Who fights for sweet France, And will die for her fame ! " Come forward ! Come " Ha ! What is doing ? He stops ! Why ? why ? By Saint Denis ! He staggers, he drops! 'T was something 't was nothing A shot and a sound ; Yet the ever-bright hero Lies low on the ground ! He loseth his eye-sight He loseth his breath He smiles Ah ! his beauty Is darkened by death ! No pause not an instant For wailing or woe ! 120 SONGS. For the battle still rageth ; Stilt fighteth the foe ; Again roar the cannon Again flies the ball And the heart of the Spaniard Spouts blood on the Gaul ! Strong armor is riven, Proud courage laid low, And Frenchmen and foemen Are dead at a blow ! O, the bellowing thunders ! The shudders the shocks ! When thousands 'gainst thousands Come clashing like rocks ! When the rain is all scarlet, And clouds are half fire, And men's sinews are snapped Like the threads of a lyre ! When each litter 's a hearse, And each bullet a knell, When each breath is a curse, And each bosom a hell ! * # # Mourn, Soldiers, he 's dead ! The last heir of Narbonne ! The bravest the best ! But the battle is won ! The Spaniards have flown To their fosse-covered tent ; SONGS. 121 And the victors are left To rejoice and lament ! They still have proud leaders, Still chivalry brave ; But the first of their heroes Lies dumb in the grave ! They bear him in honor ; They laurel his head ; But, who meets the pale burthen, And drops by the dead ? The Page ? No, the WOMAN ! Who followed her love And who '11 follow him still (If it may be) above ; Who '11 watch him, and tend him, On earth, or in sky ; Who was ready to live for him, Ready to die ! ... A month has flown by, On the wings of the year ; And a train of sad maidens Droop after a bier ; No crown on the coffin No name on the lid Yet the flower of all Provence Within it is hid ! Blanche Countess, and heiress Who loved like the sun, Lies, at last, by the side Of the heir of Narbonne ! 122 SONGS. . . . O Courage ! dost always Pay blood for a name ? True Love ! must thou ever-more Die for thy fame ? 'T were sweet could it be That the lover should dwell In the bosom (a heaven !) He loveth so well : But, if not why, then, Death, Be thou just to his worth, And sweep him at onoe From the scorn of the earth ! CII. THE FIRE-FLY. TELL us, O Guide ! by what strange natural laws This winged flower throws out, night after night, Such lunar brightness ? Why, for what grave cause Is this earth-insect crowned with heavenly light ? Peace ! Rest content ! See where, by cliff and dell, Past tangled forest paths and silent river, The little lustrous creature guides us well, And where we fail, his small light aids us ever. Night's shining servant ! Pretty star of earth ! I ask not why thy lamp doth ever burn. Perhaps it is thy very life, thy mind ; And thou, if robbed of that strange right of birth, Might be no more than Man, when Death doth turn His beauty into darkness, cold and blind ! SOXGS. 123 CIII. THE BLOOD HORSE. GAMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known ; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within ! His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light. Look, how 'round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float ! Sinewy strength is on his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins, Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire, Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself ! He, who hath no peer, was born Here, upon a red March morn : But his famous fathers dead Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, 124 SONGS. And the last of that great line Trod like one of a race divine ! And yet, he was but friend to one, Who fed him at the set of sun, By some lone fountain fringed with green With him, a roving Bedouin, He lived, (none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day,) And died untamed upon the sands Where Balkh amidst the desert stands ! CIV. HIDDEN THOUGHTS. SOME joys we loudly tell ; Some thoughts we keep apart, Fenced round, and bid them dwell In inmost heart. Close in that heart (their den) The tiger passions sleep : There, too, shut out from men, Resolve lies deep. There dreams repose, so fair, So frail, that but to sigh Their names unto the air Would force them die. These give, like violets hid, A perfume to the mind, Give sight, as once they did, To poet blind ! SONGS. 125 CV. AN EPISTLE TO CHARLES LAMB, ON HIS EMANCIPATION FROM CLERKSHIP. (WRITTEN OVER A FLASK OP SHERRIS.) DEAR LAMB, I drink to thee, to tliee Married to sweet Liberty ! What ! old friend, and art thou freed From the bondage of the pen ? Free from care and toil indeed ? Free to wander amongst men When and howsoe'er thou wilt ? All thy drops of labor spilt, On those huge and figured pages, Which will sleep unclasped for ages, Little knowing who did wield The quill that traversed their white field ? Come, another mighty health ! Thou hast earned thy sum of wealth, Countless ease, immortal leisure, Days and nights of boundless pleasure, Checquered by no dream of pain, Such as hangs on clerk-like brain 126 SONGS. Like a nightmare, and doth press The happy soul from happiness. O, happy thou, whose all of time (Day and eve, and morning prime) Is filled with talk on pleasant themes, Or visions quaint, which come in dreams Such as panthered Bacchus rules, When his rod is on " the schools," Mixing wisdom with theirwine ; Or, perhaps, thy wit so fine Stray eth in some elder book, Whereon our modern Solons look With severe, ungifted eyes, Wondering what thou seest to prize. Happy thou, whose skill can take Pleasure at each turn, and slake Thy thirst by every fountain's brink, Where less wise men would pause to shrink Sometimes 'mid stately avenues With Cowley thou, or Marvel's muse, Dost walk ; or Gray, by Eton towers ; Or Pope, in Hampton's chestnut bowers ; Or Walton, by his loved Lea stream : Or dost thou with our Milton dream Of Eden and the Apocalypse, And hear the words from his great lips ? Speak, in what grove or hazel shade, For " musing meditation made," 127 Dost wander ? or on Penshurst lawn, Where Sidney's fame had time to dawn And die, ere yet the hate of Men Could envy at his perfect pen ? Or, dost thou, in some London street (With voices filled and thronging feet,) Loiter, with mien 'twixt grave and gay, Or take, along some pathway sweet, Thy calm suburban way ? Happy beyond that man of Ross, Whom mere content could ne'er engross, Art thou, with hope, health, " learned leisure," Friends, books, thy thoughts, an endless pleasure ! Yet yet, (for when was pleasure made Sunshine all without a shade ?) Thou, perhaps, as now thou rovest Through the busy scenes thou lovest, With an Idler's careless look, Turning some moth-pierced book, Feel'st a sharp and sudden woe For visions vanished long ago ! And then, thou think'st how time has fled Over thy unsilvered head, Snatching many a fellow-mind Away, and leaving what ? behind ! Nought, alas ! save joy and pain Mingled ever, like a strain Of music where the discords vie With the truer harmony. 128 SONGS. So, perhaps, with thee the vein Is sullied ever, so the chain Of habits and affections old, Like a weight of solid gold, Presseth on thy gentle breast, Till sorrow rob thee of thy rest. Ay : so 't must be ! Ev'n I, (whose lot The Fairy Love so long forgot,) Seated beside this Sherris wine, And near to books and shapes divine, Which poets and the painters past Have wrought in lines that aye shall last, Ev'n I, with Shakspeare's self beside me, And one whose tender talk can guide me Through fears, and pains, and troublous themes, Whose smile doth fall upon my dreams Like sunshine on a stormy sea, Want something when I think of thee ! SONGS. 129 CVL 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 ! 9 130 SONGS. CVII. -A CHAMBER SCENE. TREAD softly through these amorous rooms ; For every bough is hung with life, And kisses, in harmonious strife, Unloose their sharp and winged perfumes ! From Afric, and the Persian looms, The carpet's silken leaves have sprung, And heaven, in its blue bounty, flung These starry flowers, and azure blooms. Tread softly ! By a creature fair The deity of love reposes, His red lips open, like the roses Which round his hyacinthine hair Hang in crimson coronals ; And Passion fills the arched halls ; And Beauty floats upon the air. Tread softly, softly, like the foot Of Winter, shod with fleecy snow, Who cometh white, and cold, and mute, Lest he should wake the Spring below. O, look ! for here lie Love and Youth, Fair Spirits of the heart and mind ; Alas ! that one should stray from truth ; And one be ever, ever blind ! SONGS. 131 C VIII. COURAGE. COURAGE ! Nothing can withstand Long a wronged, undaunted land ; If the hearts within her be True unto themselves and thee, Thou freed giant, Liberty ! O, no mountain-nymph art thou, When the helm is on thy brow, And the sword is in thy hand, Fighting for thy own good land ! Courage ! Nothing e'er withstood Freemen fighting for their good ; Armed with all their fathers' fame, They will win and wear a name, That shall go to endless glory, Like the Gods of old Greek story, Raised to heaven and heavenly worth, For the good they gave to earth. Courage ! There is none so poor, (None of all who wrong endure,) None so humble, none so weak, But may flush his father's cheek, And his Maiden's dear and true, With the deeds that he may do. 132 SONGS. Be his days as dark as night, He may make himself a light. What ! though sunken be the sun, There are stars when day is done ! Courage ! Who will be a slave, That hath strength to dig a grave, And therein his fetters hide, And lay a tyrant by his side ? Courage ! Hope, howe'er he fly For a time, can never die ! Courage, therefore, brother men ! Cry, " God ! and to the fight again ! " CIX. THE FISHERMAN. SET TO MUSIC BY MR. LEE. A PERILOUS life, and sad as life may be, Hath the lone fisher on the lonely sea, O'er the wild waters laboring, far from home, For some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam, Few hearts to cheer him through his dangerous life, And none to aid him in the stormy strife. Companion of the sea and silent air, The lonely fisher thus must ever fare : Without the comfort, hope, with scarce a friend, He looks through life and only sees its end ! SONGS. 133 CX. THE PAUPER'S JUBILEE. HURRAH ! Who was e'er so gay, As we merry folks to-day ? Brother Beggars, do not stare, But toss your rags into the air, And cry, " No work, and better fare ! " Each man, be he saint or sinner, Shall to-day have MEAT for Dinner ! ! ! Yesterday, O, yesterday ! That indeed was a bad day ; Iron bread, and rascal gruel, Water drink, and scanty fuel, With the beadle at our backs, Cursing us as we beat flax, Just like twelve Old Bailey Varlets, Amongst oakum-picking harlots ! Why should we such things endure ? Though we be the parish Poor, This is usage bad and rough. Are not age and pain enough ? Lonely age, unpitied pain ? With the Ban that, like a chain, 134 SONGS. To our prison bare hath bound us, And the umvelcomed Winter round us ? Why should we for ever work ? Do we starve beneath the Turk, That, with one foot in the grave, We should still toil like the slave ? Seventy winters on our heads, Yet we freeze on wooden beds ! With one blanket for a fold, That lets in the horrid cold, And cramps and agues manifold ! Yet, sometimes we 're merry people, When the chimes clang in the steeple : If 't be summer-time, we all (Dropsied, palsied, crippled,) crawl Underneath the sunny wall : Up and down like worms we creep, Or stand still and fall asleep, With our faces in the sun, Forgetting all the world has done ! If 't be May, with hawthorn blooms In our breasts, we sit on tombs, And spell o'er, with eager ken, The epitaphs of older men, (Choosing those, for some strange reasons, Who 've weathered ninety, a hundred seasons,) SONGS. 135 Till forth at last we shout in chorus, " We 've thirty good years still before us ! " But to-day 's a bonny day ! What shall we be doing ? What 's the use of saving money, When rivers flow with milk and honey ? Prudence is our ruin. What have we to do with care ? Who, to be a pauper's heir, Would mask his false face in a smile, Or hide his honest hate in guile ? But come, why do we loiter here ? Boy, go get us some small beer : Quick ! 't will make our blood run quicker, And drown the devil Pain in liquor ! March so fierce is almost past, April will be here at last, And May must come, When bees do hum, And Summer over cold victorious ! Hurrah ! 'T is a prospect glorious ! Meat ! Small Beer ! and Warmer Weather ! Come, boys, let 's be mad together ! 136 SONGS. CXI. THE FALCON. AFTER A PAINTING BY TITIAN. THE Falcon is a noble bird, And when his heart of hearts is stirred, He '11 seek the eagle, though he run Into his chamber near the sun. Never was there brute or bird, Whom the woods or mountains heard, That could force a fear or care From him, the Arab of the air ! To-day he sits upon a wrist, Whose purple veins a queen has kissed, And on him falls a sterner eye Than he can face where'er he fly, Though he scale the summit cold Of the Grimsel, vast and old, Though he search yon sunless stream, That threads the forest like a dream. Ah, noble Soldier ! noble Bird ! Will your names be ever heard, Ever seen in future story, Crowning it with deathless glory ? Peace, ho ! the master's eye is drawn Away unto the bursting dawn ! Arise, thou bird of birds, arise, And seek thy quarry in the skies ! SONGS. 137 CXII. THE PAST. THIS common field, this little brook, What is there hidden in these two, That I so often on them look, Oftener than on the heavens blue ? No beauty lies upon the field ; Small music doth the river yield ; And yet I look and look again, With something of a pleasant pain. 'T is thirty can it be thirty years, Since last I stood upon this plank, Which o'er the brook its figure rears, And watched the pebbles as they sank ? How white the stream ! I still remember Its margin glassed by hoar December, And how the sun fell on the snow : Ah ! can it be so long ago ? It cometh back ; so blythe, so bright, It hurries to my eager ken, As though but one short winter's night Had darkened o'er the world since then. It is the same clear, dazzling scene ; Perhaps the grass is scarce as green ; Perhaps the river's troubled voice Doth not so plainly say, " Rejoice." 138 SONGS. Yet Nature surely never ranges, Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown ; But, ever joyful, merely changes The primrose for the thistle-down. Tts we alone who, waxing old, Look on her with an aspect cold, Dissolve her in our burning tears, Or clothe her with the mists of years ! Then, why should not the grass be green ? And why should not the river's song Be merry, as they both have been When I was here an urchin strong ? Ah, true, too true ! I see the sun Through thirty winter years hath run, For grave eyes, mirrored in the brook, Usurp the urchin's laughing look ! So be it ! I have lost, and won ! For, once, the past was poor to me, The future dim ; and though the sun Shed life and strength, and I was free, I felt not knew no grateful pleasure : All seemed but as the common measure : But NOW the experienced Spirit old Turns all the leaden past to gold ! SONGS. 139 CXUI. SONG OF WOOD-NYMPHS. COME here, come here, and dwell In forest deep ! Come here, come here, and tell Why thou dost weep ! Is it for love (sweet pain !) That thus thou dar'st complain Unto our pleasant shades, our summer leaves, Where nought else grieves ? Come here, come here, and lie By whispering stream ! Here no one dares to die For Love's sweet dream ; But health all seek, and joy, And shun perverse annoy, And race along green paths till close of day, And laugh alway ! Or else, through half the year, On rushy floor, We lie by waters clear, While sky-larks pour Their songs into the sun ! And when bright day is done, We hide 'neath bells of flowers or nodding corn, And dream till morn ! 140 SONGS. CXIV. THE SONG OF A FELON'S WIFE. THE brand is on thy brow, A dark and guilty spot ; 'T is ne'er to be erased ! 'T is ne'er to be forgot ! The brand is on thy brow, Yet / must shade the spot : For who will love thee now, If / love thee not ? Thy soul is dark, is stained, From out the bright world thrown ; By God and man disdained, But not by me, thy own ! O, even the tiger slain Hath one who ne'er doth flee, Who soothes his dying pain f That one am I to thee ! SONGS. 141 CXV. TO THE SINGER PASTA. NEVER till now, never till now, O Queen And Wonder of the enchanted world of sound ! Never till now was such bright creature seen, Startling to transport all the regions round ! Whence com'st thou with those eyes and that fine mien, Thou sweet, sweet singer ? Like an angel found Mourning alone, thou seem'st (thy mates all fled) A star 'mongst clouds, a spirit 'midst the dead. Melodious thoughts hang round thee ! Sorrow sings Perpetual sweetness near, divine despair ! Thou speak'st, and Music, with her thousand strings, Gives golden answers from the haunted air ! Thou mov'st, and round thee Grace her beauty flings ! Thou look'st, and Love is born ! O songstress rare ! Lives there on earth a power like that which lies In those resistless tones, in those dark eyes ? O, I have lived how long ! with one deep treasure, One fountain of delight unlocked, unknown ; But