'Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?Why weep ye by the tide?I'll wed ye to my youngest son,And ye sall be his bride:And ye sall be his bride, ladie,Sae comely to be seen'—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock of Hazeldean.'Now let this wilfu' grief be done,And dry that cheek so pale;Young Frank is chief of ErringtonAnd lord of Langley-dale;His step is first in peaceful ha',His sword in battle keen'—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock of Hazeldean.'A chain of gold ye sall not lack,Nor braid to bind your hair,Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,Nor palfrey fresh and fair;And you the foremost o' them a'Shall ride our forest-queen'—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock of Hazeldean.The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,The tapers glimmer'd fair;The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,And dame and knight are there:They sought her baith by bower and ha';The ladie was not seen!She's o'er the Border, and awa'Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.
'Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?Why weep ye by the tide?I'll wed ye to my youngest son,And ye sall be his bride:And ye sall be his bride, ladie,Sae comely to be seen'—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock of Hazeldean.
'Now let this wilfu' grief be done,And dry that cheek so pale;Young Frank is chief of ErringtonAnd lord of Langley-dale;His step is first in peaceful ha',His sword in battle keen'—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock of Hazeldean.
'A chain of gold ye sall not lack,Nor braid to bind your hair,Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,Nor palfrey fresh and fair;And you the foremost o' them a'Shall ride our forest-queen'—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock of Hazeldean.
The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,The tapers glimmer'd fair;The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,And dame and knight are there:They sought her baith by bower and ha';The ladie was not seen!She's o'er the Border, and awa'Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.
Sir W. Scott
The fountains mingle with the riverAnd the rivers with the ocean,The winds of heaven mix for everWith a sweet emotion;Nothing in the world is single,All things by a law divineIn one another's being mingle—Why not I with thine?See the mountains kiss high heaven,And the waves clasp one another;No sister-flower would be forgivenIf it disdain'd its brother:And the sunlight clasps the earth,And the moonbeams kiss the sea—What are all these kissings worth,If thou kiss not me?
The fountains mingle with the riverAnd the rivers with the ocean,The winds of heaven mix for everWith a sweet emotion;Nothing in the world is single,All things by a law divineIn one another's being mingle—Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high heaven,And the waves clasp one another;No sister-flower would be forgivenIf it disdain'd its brother:And the sunlight clasps the earth,And the moonbeams kiss the sea—What are all these kissings worth,If thou kiss not me?
P. B. Shelley
How sweet the answer Echo makesTo Music at nightWhen, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,And far away o'er lawns and lakesGoes answering light!Yet Love hath echoes truer farAnd far more sweetThan e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,Of horn or lute or soft guitarThe songs repeat.'Tis when the sigh,—in youth sincereAnd only then,The sigh that's breathed for one to hear—Is by that one, that only DearBreathed back again.
How sweet the answer Echo makesTo Music at nightWhen, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,And far away o'er lawns and lakesGoes answering light!
Yet Love hath echoes truer farAnd far more sweetThan e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,Of horn or lute or soft guitarThe songs repeat.
'Tis when the sigh,—in youth sincereAnd only then,The sigh that's breathed for one to hear—Is by that one, that only DearBreathed back again.
T. Moore
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,The sun has left the lea,The orange-flower perfumes the bower,The breeze is on the sea.The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,Sits hush'd his partner nigh;Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,But where is County Guy?The village maid steals through the shadeHer shepherd's suit to hear;To Beauty shy, by lattice high,Sings high-born Cavalier.The star of Love, all stars above,Now reigns o'er earth and sky,And high and low the influence know—But where is County Guy?
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,The sun has left the lea,The orange-flower perfumes the bower,The breeze is on the sea.The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,Sits hush'd his partner nigh;Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shadeHer shepherd's suit to hear;To Beauty shy, by lattice high,Sings high-born Cavalier.The star of Love, all stars above,Now reigns o'er earth and sky,And high and low the influence know—But where is County Guy?
Sir W. Scott
Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,Companion of retiring day,Why at the closing gates of heaven,Beloved Star, dost thou delay?So fair thy pensile beauty burnsWhen soft the tear of twilight flows;So due thy plighted love returnsTo chambers brighter than the rose;To Peace, to Pleasure, and to LoveSo kind a star thou seem'st to be,Sure some enamour'd orb aboveDescends and burns to meet with thee.Thine is the breathing, blushing hourWhen all unheavenly passions fly,Chased by the soul-subduing powerOf Love's delicious witchery.O! sacred to the fall of dayQueen of propitious stars, appear,And early rise, and long delay,When Caroline herself is here!Shine on her chosen green resortWhose trees the sunward summit crown,And wanton flowers, that well may courtAn angel's feet to tread them down:—Shine on her sweetly scented roadThou star of evening's purple dome,That lead'st the nightingale abroad,And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.Shine where my charmer's sweeter breathEmbalms the soft exhaling dew,Where dying winds a sigh bequeathTo kiss the cheek of rosy hue:—Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,Her silken tresses darkly flowAnd fall upon her brow so fair,Like shadows on the mountain snow.Thus, ever thus, at day's declineIn converse sweet to wander far—O bring with thee my Caroline,And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!
Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,Companion of retiring day,Why at the closing gates of heaven,Beloved Star, dost thou delay?
So fair thy pensile beauty burnsWhen soft the tear of twilight flows;So due thy plighted love returnsTo chambers brighter than the rose;
To Peace, to Pleasure, and to LoveSo kind a star thou seem'st to be,Sure some enamour'd orb aboveDescends and burns to meet with thee.
Thine is the breathing, blushing hourWhen all unheavenly passions fly,Chased by the soul-subduing powerOf Love's delicious witchery.
O! sacred to the fall of dayQueen of propitious stars, appear,And early rise, and long delay,When Caroline herself is here!
Shine on her chosen green resortWhose trees the sunward summit crown,And wanton flowers, that well may courtAn angel's feet to tread them down:—
Shine on her sweetly scented roadThou star of evening's purple dome,That lead'st the nightingale abroad,And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.
Shine where my charmer's sweeter breathEmbalms the soft exhaling dew,Where dying winds a sigh bequeathTo kiss the cheek of rosy hue:—
Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,Her silken tresses darkly flowAnd fall upon her brow so fair,Like shadows on the mountain snow.
Thus, ever thus, at day's declineIn converse sweet to wander far—O bring with thee my Caroline,And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!
T. Campbell
Swiftly walk over the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern caveWhere, all the long and lone daylight,Thou wovest dreams of joy and fearWhich make thee terrible and dear,—Swift be thy flight!Wrap thy form in a mantle grayStar-inwrought;Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,Kiss her until she be wearied out:Then wander o'er city and sea and land,Touching all with thine opiate wand—Come, long-sought!When I arose and saw the dawn,I sigh'd for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turn'd to his restLingering like an unloved guest,I sigh'd for thee.Thy brother Death came, and criedWouldst thou me?Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmur'd like a noon-tide beeShall I nestle near thy side?Wouldst thou me?—And I repliedNo, not thee!Death will come when thou art dead,Soon, too soon—Sleep will come when thou art fled;Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, belovéd Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!
Swiftly walk over the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern caveWhere, all the long and lone daylight,Thou wovest dreams of joy and fearWhich make thee terrible and dear,—Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle grayStar-inwrought;Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,Kiss her until she be wearied out:Then wander o'er city and sea and land,Touching all with thine opiate wand—Come, long-sought!
When I arose and saw the dawn,I sigh'd for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turn'd to his restLingering like an unloved guest,I sigh'd for thee.
Thy brother Death came, and criedWouldst thou me?Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmur'd like a noon-tide beeShall I nestle near thy side?Wouldst thou me?—And I repliedNo, not thee!
Death will come when thou art dead,Soon, too soon—Sleep will come when thou art fled;Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, belovéd Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!
P. B. Shelley
Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plantOf such weak fibre that the treacherous airOf absence withers what was once so fair?Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,Bound to thy service with unceasing care—The mind's least generous wish a mendicantFor nought but what thy happiness could spare.Speak!—though this soft warm heart, once free to holdA thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,Be left more desolate, more dreary coldThan a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine—Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plantOf such weak fibre that the treacherous airOf absence withers what was once so fair?Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,Bound to thy service with unceasing care—The mind's least generous wish a mendicantFor nought but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak!—though this soft warm heart, once free to holdA thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine—Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
W. Wordsworth
When we two partedIn silence and tears,Half broken-hearted,To sever for years,Pale grew thy cheek and cold,Colder thy kiss;Truly that hour foretoldSorrow to this!The dew of the morningSunk chill on my brow;It felt like the warningOf what I feel now.Thy vows are all broken,And light is thy fame:I hear thy name spokenAnd share in its shame.They name thee before me,A knell to mine ear;A shudder comes o'er me—Why wert thou so dear?They know not I knew theeWho knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue thee,Too deeply to tell.In secret we met:In silence I grieveThat thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter long years,How should I greet thee?—With silence and tears.
When we two partedIn silence and tears,Half broken-hearted,To sever for years,Pale grew thy cheek and cold,Colder thy kiss;Truly that hour foretoldSorrow to this!
The dew of the morningSunk chill on my brow;It felt like the warningOf what I feel now.Thy vows are all broken,And light is thy fame:I hear thy name spokenAnd share in its shame.
They name thee before me,A knell to mine ear;A shudder comes o'er me—Why wert thou so dear?They know not I knew theeWho knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue thee,Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met:In silence I grieveThat thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter long years,How should I greet thee?—With silence and tears.
Lord Byron
In a drear-nighted December,Too happy, happy tree,Thy branches ne'er rememberTheir green felicity:The north cannot undo themWith a sleety whistle through them,Nor frozen thawings glue themFrom budding at the prime.In a drear-nighted December,Too happy, happy brook,Thy bubblings ne'er rememberApollo's summer look;But with a sweet forgettingThey stay their crystal fretting,Never, never pettingAbout the frozen time.Ah! would 'twere so with manyA gentle girl and boy!But were there ever anyWrithed not at passéd joy?To know the change and feel it,When there is none to heal itNor numbéd sense to steal it—Was never said in rhyme.
In a drear-nighted December,Too happy, happy tree,Thy branches ne'er rememberTheir green felicity:The north cannot undo themWith a sleety whistle through them,Nor frozen thawings glue themFrom budding at the prime.
In a drear-nighted December,Too happy, happy brook,Thy bubblings ne'er rememberApollo's summer look;But with a sweet forgettingThey stay their crystal fretting,Never, never pettingAbout the frozen time.
Ah! would 'twere so with manyA gentle girl and boy!But were there ever anyWrithed not at passéd joy?To know the change and feel it,When there is none to heal itNor numbéd sense to steal it—Was never said in rhyme.
J. Keats
Where shall the lover restWhom the fates severFrom his true maiden's breastParted for ever?Where, through groves deep and highSounds the far billow,Where early violets dieUnder the willow.Eleu loroSoft shall be his pillow.There through the summer dayCool streams are laving:There, while the tempests sway,Scarce are boughs waving;There thy rest shalt thou take,Parted for ever,Never again to wakeNever, O never!Eleu loroNever, O never!Where shall the traitor rest,He, the deceiver,Who could win maiden's breast,Ruin, and leave her?In the lost battle,Borne down by the flying,Where mingles war's rattleWith groans of the dying;Eleu loroThere shall he be lying.Her wing shall the eagle flapO'er the falsehearted;His warm blood the wolf shall lapEre life be parted:Shame and dishonour sitBy his grave ever;Blessing shall hallow itNever, O never!Eleu loroNever, O never!
Where shall the lover restWhom the fates severFrom his true maiden's breastParted for ever?Where, through groves deep and highSounds the far billow,Where early violets dieUnder the willow.Eleu loroSoft shall be his pillow.
There through the summer dayCool streams are laving:There, while the tempests sway,Scarce are boughs waving;There thy rest shalt thou take,Parted for ever,Never again to wakeNever, O never!Eleu loroNever, O never!
Where shall the traitor rest,He, the deceiver,Who could win maiden's breast,Ruin, and leave her?In the lost battle,Borne down by the flying,Where mingles war's rattleWith groans of the dying;Eleu loroThere shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flapO'er the falsehearted;His warm blood the wolf shall lapEre life be parted:Shame and dishonour sitBy his grave ever;Blessing shall hallow itNever, O never!Eleu loroNever, O never!
Sir W. Scott
'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,Alone and palely loitering?The sedge has wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!So haggard and so woe-begone?The squirrel's granary is full,And the harvest's done.'I see a lily on thy browWith anguish moist and fever-dew,And on thy cheeks a fading roseFast withereth too.''I met a lady in the meads,Full beautiful—a faery's child,Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild.'I made a garland for her head,And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;She look'd at me as she did love,And made sweet moan.'I set her on my pacing steedAnd nothing else saw all day long,For sidelong would she bend, and singA faery's song.'She found me roots of relish sweet,And honey wild and manna-dew,And sure in language strange she said"I love thee true."'She took me to her elfin grot,And there she wept and sigh'd full sore;And there I shut her wild wild eyesWith kisses four.'And there she lulléd me asleep,And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide!The latest dream I ever dream'dOn the cold hill's side.'I saw pale kings and princes too,Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:They cried—"La belle Dame sans MerciHath thee in thrall!"'I saw their starved lips in the gloamWith horrid warning gapéd wide,And I awoke and found me hereOn the cold hill's side.'And this is why I sojourn hereAlone and palely loitering,Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.'
'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,Alone and palely loitering?The sedge has wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.
'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!So haggard and so woe-begone?The squirrel's granary is full,And the harvest's done.
'I see a lily on thy browWith anguish moist and fever-dew,And on thy cheeks a fading roseFast withereth too.'
'I met a lady in the meads,Full beautiful—a faery's child,Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild.
'I made a garland for her head,And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;She look'd at me as she did love,And made sweet moan.
'I set her on my pacing steedAnd nothing else saw all day long,For sidelong would she bend, and singA faery's song.
'She found me roots of relish sweet,And honey wild and manna-dew,And sure in language strange she said"I love thee true."
'She took me to her elfin grot,And there she wept and sigh'd full sore;And there I shut her wild wild eyesWith kisses four.
'And there she lulléd me asleep,And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide!The latest dream I ever dream'dOn the cold hill's side.
'I saw pale kings and princes too,Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:They cried—"La belle Dame sans MerciHath thee in thrall!"
'I saw their starved lips in the gloamWith horrid warning gapéd wide,And I awoke and found me hereOn the cold hill's side.
'And this is why I sojourn hereAlone and palely loitering,Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.'
J. Keats
A weary lot is thine, fair maid,A weary lot is thine!To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,And press the rue for wine.A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,A feather of the blue,A doublet of the Lincoln green—No more of me you knewMy Love!No more of me you knew.'This morn is merry June, I trow,The rose is budding fain;But she shall bloom in winter snowEre we two meet again.'He turn'd his charger as he spakeUpon the river shore,He gave the bridle-reins a shake,Said 'Adieu for evermoreMy Love!And adieu for evermore.'
A weary lot is thine, fair maid,A weary lot is thine!To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,And press the rue for wine.A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,A feather of the blue,A doublet of the Lincoln green—No more of me you knewMy Love!No more of me you knew.
'This morn is merry June, I trow,The rose is budding fain;But she shall bloom in winter snowEre we two meet again.'He turn'd his charger as he spakeUpon the river shore,He gave the bridle-reins a shake,Said 'Adieu for evermoreMy Love!And adieu for evermore.'
Sir W. Scott
When the lamp is shatter'dThe light in the dust lies dead—When the cloud is scatter'd,The rainbow's glory is shed.When the lute is broken,Sweet tones are remember'd not;When the lips have spoken,Loved accents are soon forgot.As music and splendourSurvive not the lamp and the lute,The heart's echoes renderNo song when the spirit is mute—No song but sad dirges,Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,Or the mournful surgesThat ring the dead seaman's knell.When hearts have once mingled,Love first leaves the well-built nest;The weak one is singledTo endure what it once possesst.O Love! who bewailestThe frailty of all things here,Why choose you the frailestFor your cradle, your home, and your bier?Its passions will rock theeAs the storms rock the ravens on high;Bright reason will mock theeLike the sun from a wintry sky.From thy nest every rafterWill rot, and thine eagle homeLeave thee naked to laughter,When leaves fall and cold winds come.
When the lamp is shatter'dThe light in the dust lies dead—When the cloud is scatter'd,The rainbow's glory is shed.When the lute is broken,Sweet tones are remember'd not;When the lips have spoken,Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendourSurvive not the lamp and the lute,The heart's echoes renderNo song when the spirit is mute—No song but sad dirges,Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,Or the mournful surgesThat ring the dead seaman's knell.
When hearts have once mingled,Love first leaves the well-built nest;The weak one is singledTo endure what it once possesst.O Love! who bewailestThe frailty of all things here,Why choose you the frailestFor your cradle, your home, and your bier?
Its passions will rock theeAs the storms rock the ravens on high;Bright reason will mock theeLike the sun from a wintry sky.From thy nest every rafterWill rot, and thine eagle homeLeave thee naked to laughter,When leaves fall and cold winds come.
P. B. Shelley
O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,And lovers' ears in hearing;And love, in life's extremity,Can lend an hour of cheering.Disease had been in Mary's bowerAnd slow decay from mourning,Though now she sits on Neidpath's towerTo watch her Love's returning.All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,Her form decay'd by pining,Till through her wasted hand, at night,You saw the taper shining.By fits a sultry hectic hueAcross her cheek was flying;By fits so ashy pale she grewHer maidens thought her dying.Yet keenest powers to see and hearSeem'd in her frame residing;Before the watch-dog prick'd his earShe heard her lover's riding;Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'dShe knew and waved to greet him,And o'er the battlement did bendAs on the wing to meet him.He came—he pass'd—an heedless gazeAs o'er some stranger glancing;Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,Lost in his courser's prancing—The castle-arch, whose hollow toneReturns each whisper spoken,Could scarcely catch the feeble moanWhich told her heart was broken.
O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,And lovers' ears in hearing;And love, in life's extremity,Can lend an hour of cheering.Disease had been in Mary's bowerAnd slow decay from mourning,Though now she sits on Neidpath's towerTo watch her Love's returning.
All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,Her form decay'd by pining,Till through her wasted hand, at night,You saw the taper shining.By fits a sultry hectic hueAcross her cheek was flying;By fits so ashy pale she grewHer maidens thought her dying.
Yet keenest powers to see and hearSeem'd in her frame residing;Before the watch-dog prick'd his earShe heard her lover's riding;Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'dShe knew and waved to greet him,And o'er the battlement did bendAs on the wing to meet him.
He came—he pass'd—an heedless gazeAs o'er some stranger glancing;Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,Lost in his courser's prancing—The castle-arch, whose hollow toneReturns each whisper spoken,Could scarcely catch the feeble moanWhich told her heart was broken.
Sir W. Scott
Earl March look'd on his dying child,And, smit with grief to view her—The youth, he cried, whom I exiledShall be restored to woo her.She's at the window many an hourHis coming to discover:And he look'd up to Ellen's bowerAnd she look'd on her lover—But ah! so pale, he knew her not,Though her smile on him was dwelling—And am I then forgot—forgot?It broke the heart of Ellen.In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,Her cheek is cold as ashes;Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyesTo lift their silken lashes.
Earl March look'd on his dying child,And, smit with grief to view her—The youth, he cried, whom I exiledShall be restored to woo her.
She's at the window many an hourHis coming to discover:And he look'd up to Ellen's bowerAnd she look'd on her lover—
But ah! so pale, he knew her not,Though her smile on him was dwelling—And am I then forgot—forgot?It broke the heart of Ellen.
In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,Her cheek is cold as ashes;Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyesTo lift their silken lashes.
T. Campbell
Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art—Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,And watching, with eternal lids apart,Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,The moving waters at their priestlike taskOf pure ablution round earth's human shores,Or gazing on the new soft fallen maskOf snow upon the mountains and the moors:—No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breastTo feel for ever its soft fall and swell,Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,And so live ever,—or else swoon to death.
Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art—Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,And watching, with eternal lids apart,Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike taskOf pure ablution round earth's human shores,Or gazing on the new soft fallen maskOf snow upon the mountains and the moors:—
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breastTo feel for ever its soft fall and swell,Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,And so live ever,—or else swoon to death.
J. Keats
When I have fears that I may cease to beBefore my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,Before high-piléd books, in charact'ryHold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,And think that I may never live to traceTheir shadows, with the magic hand of chance;And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!That I shall never look upon thee more,Never have relish in the faery powerOf unreflecting love—then on the shoreOf the wide world I stand alone, and thinkTill Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
When I have fears that I may cease to beBefore my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,Before high-piléd books, in charact'ryHold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,And think that I may never live to traceTheir shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!That I shall never look upon thee more,Never have relish in the faery powerOf unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and thinkTill Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
Keats
Surprized by joy—impatient as the wind—I turn'd to share the transport—Oh! with whomBut Thee—deep buried in the silent tomb,That spot which no vicissitude can find?Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind—But how could I forget thee? Through what powerEven for the least division of an hourHave I been so beguiled as to be blindTo my most grievous loss!—That thought's returnWas the worst pang that sorrow ever boreSave one, one only, when I stood forlorn,Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;That neither present time, nor years unbornCould to my sight that heavenly face restore.
Surprized by joy—impatient as the wind—I turn'd to share the transport—Oh! with whomBut Thee—deep buried in the silent tomb,That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind—But how could I forget thee? Through what powerEven for the least division of an hourHave I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss!—That thought's returnWas the worst pang that sorrow ever boreSave one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;That neither present time, nor years unbornCould to my sight that heavenly face restore.
W. Wordsworth
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I flyTo the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of airTo revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me thereAnd tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hearWhen our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,I think, oh my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of SoulsFaintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I flyTo the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of airTo revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me thereAnd tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!
Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hearWhen our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,I think, oh my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of SoulsFaintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
T. Moore
And thou art dead, as young and fairAs aught of mortal birth;And forms so soft and charms so rareToo soon return'd to Earth!Though Earth received them in her bed,And o'er the spot the crowd may treadIn carelessness or mirth,There is an eye which could not brookA moment on that grave to look.I will not ask where thou liest lowNor gaze upon the spot;There flowers or weeds at will may growSo I behold them not:It is enough for me to proveThat what I loved, and long must love,Like common earth can rot;To me there needs no stone to tell'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.Yet did I love thee to the last,As fervently as thouWho didst not change through all the pastAnd canst not alter now.The love where Death has set his sealNor age can chill, nor rival steal,Nor falsehood disavow:And, what were worse, thou canst not seeOr wrong, or change, or fault in me.The better days of life were ours;The worst can be but mine:The sun that cheers, the storm that lours,Shall never more be thine.The silence of that dreamless sleepI envy now too much to weep;Nor need I to repineThat all those charms have pass'd awayI might have watch'd through long decay.The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'dMust fall the earliest prey;Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,The leaves must drop away.And yet it were a greater griefTo watch it withering, leaf by leaf,Than see it pluck'd today;Since earthly eye but ill can bearTo trace the change to foul from fair.I know not if I could have borneTo see thy beauties fade;The night that follow'd such a mornHad worn a deeper shade:Thy day without a cloud hath past,And thou wert lovely to the last,Extinguish'd, not decay'd;As stars that shoot along the skyShine brightest as they fall from high.As once I wept, if I could weep,My tears might well be shedTo think I was not near, to keepOne vigil o'er thy bed:To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,To fold thee in a faint embrace,Uphold thy drooping head;And show that love, however vain,Nor thou nor I can feel again.Yet how much less it were to gain,Though thou hast left me free,The loveliest things that still remainThan thus remember thee!The all of thine that cannot dieThrough dark and dread EternityReturns again to me,And more thy buried love endearsThan aught except its living years.
And thou art dead, as young and fairAs aught of mortal birth;And forms so soft and charms so rareToo soon return'd to Earth!Though Earth received them in her bed,And o'er the spot the crowd may treadIn carelessness or mirth,There is an eye which could not brookA moment on that grave to look.
I will not ask where thou liest lowNor gaze upon the spot;There flowers or weeds at will may growSo I behold them not:It is enough for me to proveThat what I loved, and long must love,Like common earth can rot;To me there needs no stone to tell'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last,As fervently as thouWho didst not change through all the pastAnd canst not alter now.The love where Death has set his sealNor age can chill, nor rival steal,Nor falsehood disavow:And, what were worse, thou canst not seeOr wrong, or change, or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours;The worst can be but mine:The sun that cheers, the storm that lours,Shall never more be thine.The silence of that dreamless sleepI envy now too much to weep;Nor need I to repineThat all those charms have pass'd awayI might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'dMust fall the earliest prey;Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,The leaves must drop away.And yet it were a greater griefTo watch it withering, leaf by leaf,Than see it pluck'd today;Since earthly eye but ill can bearTo trace the change to foul from fair.
I know not if I could have borneTo see thy beauties fade;The night that follow'd such a mornHad worn a deeper shade:Thy day without a cloud hath past,And thou wert lovely to the last,Extinguish'd, not decay'd;As stars that shoot along the skyShine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept, if I could weep,My tears might well be shedTo think I was not near, to keepOne vigil o'er thy bed:To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,To fold thee in a faint embrace,Uphold thy drooping head;And show that love, however vain,Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain,Though thou hast left me free,The loveliest things that still remainThan thus remember thee!The all of thine that cannot dieThrough dark and dread EternityReturns again to me,And more thy buried love endearsThan aught except its living years.
Lord Byron
One word is too often profanedFor me to profane it,One feeling too falsely disdain'dFor thee to disdain it.One hope is too like despairFor prudence to smother,And pity from thee more dearThan that from another.I can give not what men call love;But wilt thou accept notThe worship the heart lifts aboveAnd the Heavens reject not:The desire of the moth for the star,Of the night for the morrow,The devotion to something afarFrom the sphere of our sorrow?
One word is too often profanedFor me to profane it,One feeling too falsely disdain'dFor thee to disdain it.One hope is too like despairFor prudence to smother,And pity from thee more dearThan that from another.
I can give not what men call love;But wilt thou accept notThe worship the heart lifts aboveAnd the Heavens reject not:The desire of the moth for the star,Of the night for the morrow,The devotion to something afarFrom the sphere of our sorrow?
P. B. Shelley
Pibroch of Donuil DhuPibroch of DonuilWake thy wild voice anew,Summon Clan Conuil.Come away, come away,Hark to the summons!Come in your war-array,Gentles and commons.Come from deep glen, andFrom mountain so rocky;The war-pipe and pennonAre at Inverlocky.Come every hill-plaid, andTrue heart that wears one,Come every steel blade, andStrong hand that bears one.Leave untended the herd,The flock without shelter;Leave the corpse uninterr'd,The bride at the altar;Leave the deer, leave the steer,Leave nets and barges:Come with your fighting gear,Broadswords and targes.Come as the winds come, whenForests are rended,Come as the waves come, whenNavies are stranded:Faster come, faster come,Faster and faster,Chief, vassal, page and groom,Tenant and master.Fast they come, fast they come;See how they gather!Wide waves the eagle plumeBlended with heather.Cast your plaids, draw your bladesForward each man set!Pibroch of Donuil DhuKnell for the onset!
Pibroch of Donuil DhuPibroch of DonuilWake thy wild voice anew,Summon Clan Conuil.Come away, come away,Hark to the summons!Come in your war-array,Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen, andFrom mountain so rocky;The war-pipe and pennonAre at Inverlocky.Come every hill-plaid, andTrue heart that wears one,Come every steel blade, andStrong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd,The flock without shelter;Leave the corpse uninterr'd,The bride at the altar;Leave the deer, leave the steer,Leave nets and barges:Come with your fighting gear,Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come, whenForests are rended,Come as the waves come, whenNavies are stranded:Faster come, faster come,Faster and faster,Chief, vassal, page and groom,Tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come;See how they gather!Wide waves the eagle plumeBlended with heather.Cast your plaids, draw your bladesForward each man set!Pibroch of Donuil DhuKnell for the onset!
Sir W. Scott
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fastAnd fills the white and rustling sailAnd bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While like the eagle freeAway the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee.O for a soft and gentle wind!I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my lads,The good ship tight and free—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.There's tempest in yon hornéd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;But hark the music, mariners!The wind is piping loud;The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fastAnd fills the white and rustling sailAnd bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While like the eagle freeAway the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee.
O for a soft and gentle wind!I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my lads,The good ship tight and free—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon hornéd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;But hark the music, mariners!The wind is piping loud;The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.
A. Cunningham
Ye Mariners of EnglandThat guard our native seas!Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,The battle and the breeze!Your glorious standard launch againTo match another foe:And sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and longAnd the stormy winds do blow.The spirits of your fathersShall start from every wave—For the deck it was their field of fame,And Ocean was their grave:Where Blake and mighty Nelson fellYour manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and longAnd the stormy winds do blow.Britannia needs no bulwarks,No towers along the steep;Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,Her home is on the deep.With thunders from her native oakShe quells the floods below—As they roar on the shore,When the stormy winds do blow;When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.The meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn;Till danger's troubled night departAnd the star of peace return.Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!Our song and feast shall flowTo the fame of your name,When the storm has ceased to blow;When the fiery fight is heard no more,And the storm has ceased to blow.
Ye Mariners of EnglandThat guard our native seas!Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,The battle and the breeze!Your glorious standard launch againTo match another foe:And sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and longAnd the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathersShall start from every wave—For the deck it was their field of fame,And Ocean was their grave:Where Blake and mighty Nelson fellYour manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and longAnd the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,No towers along the steep;Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,Her home is on the deep.With thunders from her native oakShe quells the floods below—As they roar on the shore,When the stormy winds do blow;When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn;Till danger's troubled night departAnd the star of peace return.Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!Our song and feast shall flowTo the fame of your name,When the storm has ceased to blow;When the fiery fight is heard no more,And the storm has ceased to blow.
T. Campbell