4.Song from "Pippa Passes."
The year's at the springAnd day's at the morn;Morning's at seven;The hill-side's dew-pearled;The lark's on the wing;The snail's on the thorn:God's in his heaven—All's right with the world!
The year's at the springAnd day's at the morn;Morning's at seven;The hill-side's dew-pearled;The lark's on the wing;The snail's on the thorn:God's in his heaven—All's right with the world!
5.Song from "Pippa Passes."
You'll love me yet!—and I can tarryYour love's protracted growing:June reared that bunch of flowers you carry,From seeds of April's sowing.I plant a heartful now: some seedAt least is sure to strike,And yield—what you'll not pluck indeed,Not love, but, may be, like.You'll look at least on love's remains,A grave's one violet:Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.What's death? You'll love me yet!
You'll love me yet!—and I can tarryYour love's protracted growing:June reared that bunch of flowers you carry,From seeds of April's sowing.
I plant a heartful now: some seedAt least is sure to strike,And yield—what you'll not pluck indeed,Not love, but, may be, like.
You'll look at least on love's remains,A grave's one violet:Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.What's death? You'll love me yet!
6.TheLost Mistress.
I.All's over, then: does truth sound bitterAs one at first believes?Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitterAbout your cottage eaves!II.And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,I noticed that, to-day;One day more bursts them open fully—You know the red turns grey.III.To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?May I take your hand in mine?Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merestKeep much that I resign:IV.For each glance of the eye so bright and black,Though I keep with heart's endeavour,—Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,Though it stay in my soul for ever!—V.Yet I will but say what mere friends say,Or only a thought stronger;I will hold your hand but as long as all may,Or so very little longer!
I.
All's over, then: does truth sound bitterAs one at first believes?Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitterAbout your cottage eaves!
II.
And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,I noticed that, to-day;One day more bursts them open fully—You know the red turns grey.
III.
To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?May I take your hand in mine?Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merestKeep much that I resign:
IV.
For each glance of the eye so bright and black,Though I keep with heart's endeavour,—Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,Though it stay in my soul for ever!—
V.
Yet I will but say what mere friends say,Or only a thought stronger;I will hold your hand but as long as all may,Or so very little longer!
7.Home-Thoughts, from the Sea.
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;"Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?"—say,Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;"Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?"—say,Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
8.Epilogue.
At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,When you set your fancies free,Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, imprisoned—Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so,—Pity me?Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!What had I on earth to doWith the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly?Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel—Being—who?One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,Never doubted clouds would break,Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,Sleep to wake.No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-timeGreet the unseen with a cheer!Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,—fight on, fare everThere as here!"1896 Edition.
At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,When you set your fancies free,Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, imprisoned—Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so,—Pity me?
Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!What had I on earth to doWith the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly?Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel—Being—who?
One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,Never doubted clouds would break,Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,Sleep to wake.
No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-timeGreet the unseen with a cheer!Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,—fight on, fare everThere as here!"
1896 Edition.
9.The Silver Tassie.
I.Go, fetch to me a pint o' wine,And fill it in a silver tassie,That I may drink before I goA service to my bonie lassie!The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry,The ship rides by the Berwick-Law,And I maun leave my bonie Mary.II.The trumpets sound, the banners fly,The glittering spears are rankèd ready,The shouts o' war are heard afar,The battle closes deep and bloody.It's not the roar o' sea or shoreWad mak me langer wish to tarry,Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar:It's leaving thee, my bonie Mary!
I.
Go, fetch to me a pint o' wine,And fill it in a silver tassie,That I may drink before I goA service to my bonie lassie!The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry,The ship rides by the Berwick-Law,And I maun leave my bonie Mary.
II.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly,The glittering spears are rankèd ready,The shouts o' war are heard afar,The battle closes deep and bloody.It's not the roar o' sea or shoreWad mak me langer wish to tarry,Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar:It's leaving thee, my bonie Mary!
10.Of a' the Airts.
I.Of a' the airts the wind can blawI dearly like the west,For there the bonie lassie lives,The lassie I lo'e best.There wild woods grow, and rivers row,And monie a hill between,But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean.II.I see her in the dewy flowers—I see her sweet and fair.I hear her in the tunefu' birds—I hear her charm the air.There's not a bonie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green,There's not a bonie bird that sings,But minds me o' my Jean.
I.
Of a' the airts the wind can blawI dearly like the west,For there the bonie lassie lives,The lassie I lo'e best.There wild woods grow, and rivers row,And monie a hill between,But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean.
II.
I see her in the dewy flowers—I see her sweet and fair.I hear her in the tunefu' birds—I hear her charm the air.There's not a bonie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green,There's not a bonie bird that sings,But minds me o' my Jean.
11.John Anderson my Jo.
I.John Anderson my jo, John,When we were first acquent,Your locks were like the raven,Your bonie brow was brent;But now your brow is beld, John,Your locks are like the snaw,But blessings on your frosty pow,John Anderson my jo!II.John Anderson my jo, John,We clamb the hill thegither,And monie a cantie day, John,We've had wi' ane anither;Now we maun totter down, John,And hand in hand we'll go,And sleep thegither at the foot,John Anderson my jo!
I.
John Anderson my jo, John,When we were first acquent,Your locks were like the raven,Your bonie brow was brent;But now your brow is beld, John,Your locks are like the snaw,But blessings on your frosty pow,John Anderson my jo!
II.
John Anderson my jo, John,We clamb the hill thegither,And monie a cantie day, John,We've had wi' ane anither;Now we maun totter down, John,And hand in hand we'll go,And sleep thegither at the foot,John Anderson my jo!
12.Ae Fond Kiss.
I.Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!Ae farewell, and then forever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,While the star of hope she leaves him?Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me,Dark despair around benights me.II.I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy:Naething could resist my Nancy!But to see her was to love her,Love but her, and love for ever.Had we never lov'd sae kindly,Had we never lov'd sae blindly,Never met—or never parted—We had ne'er been broken-hearted.III.Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!Thine be ilka joy and treasure,Peace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleasure!Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!Ae farewell, alas, for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
I.
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!Ae farewell, and then forever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,While the star of hope she leaves him?Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me,Dark despair around benights me.
II.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy:Naething could resist my Nancy!But to see her was to love her,Love but her, and love for ever.Had we never lov'd sae kindly,Had we never lov'd sae blindly,Never met—or never parted—We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
III.
Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!Thine be ilka joy and treasure,Peace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleasure!Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!Ae farewell, alas, for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
13.YeFlowery Banks.
I.Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon,How can ye blume sae fair?How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae fu' o' care?II.Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,That sings upon the bough:Thou minds me o' the happy daysWhen my fause Luve was true!III.Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,That sings beside thy mate:For sae I sat, and sae I sang,And wist na o' my fate!IV.Aft hae I rov'd by bonie DoonTo see the woodbine twine,And ilka bird sang o' its luve,And sae did I o' mine.V.Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a roseFrae aff its thorny tree,And my fause luver staw my rose,But left the thorn wi' me.
I.
Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon,How can ye blume sae fair?How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae fu' o' care?
II.
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,That sings upon the bough:Thou minds me o' the happy daysWhen my fause Luve was true!
III.
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,That sings beside thy mate:For sae I sat, and sae I sang,And wist na o' my fate!
IV.
Aft hae I rov'd by bonie DoonTo see the woodbine twine,And ilka bird sang o' its luve,And sae did I o' mine.
V.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a roseFrae aff its thorny tree,And my fause luver staw my rose,But left the thorn wi' me.
14.A Red,Red Rose.
I.O, my luve is like a red, red rose,That's newly sprung in June.O, my luve is like the melodie,That's sweetly play'd in tune.II.As fair art thou, my bonie lass,So deep in luve am I,And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a' the seas gang dry.III.Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi' the sun!And I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o' life shall run.IV.And fare the weel, my only luve,And fare the weel a while!And I will come again, my luve,Tho' it were ten thousand mile!
I.
O, my luve is like a red, red rose,That's newly sprung in June.O, my luve is like the melodie,That's sweetly play'd in tune.
II.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,So deep in luve am I,And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a' the seas gang dry.
III.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi' the sun!And I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o' life shall run.
IV.
And fare the weel, my only luve,And fare the weel a while!And I will come again, my luve,Tho' it were ten thousand mile!
15.Mary Morison.
I.O Mary, at thy window be!It is the wish'd, the trysted hour.Those smiles and glances let me see,That make the miser's treasure poor.How blythely wad I bide the stoure,A weary slave frae sun to sun,Could I the rich reward secure—The lovely Mary Morison!II.Yestreen, when to the trembling stringThe dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',To thee my fancy took its wing,I sat, but neither heard or saw:Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,And yon the toast of a' the town,I sigh'd and said amang them a':—"Ye are na Mary Morison!"III.O Mary, canst thou wreck his peaceWha for thy sake wad gladly die?Or canst thou break that heart of hisWhase only faut is loving thee?If love for love thou wilt na gie,At least be pity to me shown:A thought ungentle canna beThe thought o' Mary Morison.Henderson and Henley's Text.
I.
O Mary, at thy window be!It is the wish'd, the trysted hour.Those smiles and glances let me see,That make the miser's treasure poor.How blythely wad I bide the stoure,A weary slave frae sun to sun,Could I the rich reward secure—The lovely Mary Morison!
II.
Yestreen, when to the trembling stringThe dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',To thee my fancy took its wing,I sat, but neither heard or saw:Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,And yon the toast of a' the town,I sigh'd and said amang them a':—"Ye are na Mary Morison!"
III.
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peaceWha for thy sake wad gladly die?Or canst thou break that heart of hisWhase only faut is loving thee?If love for love thou wilt na gie,At least be pity to me shown:A thought ungentle canna beThe thought o' Mary Morison.
Henderson and Henley's Text.
16.She Walks in Beauty.
I.She walks in Beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich Heaven to gaudy day denies.II.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet express,How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.III.And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!
I.
She walks in Beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich Heaven to gaudy day denies.
II.
One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet express,How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
III.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!
17.Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom.
I.Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;But on thy turf shall roses rearTheir leaves, the earliest of the year;And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:II.And oft by yon blue gushing streamShall Sorrow lean her drooping head,And feed deep thought with many a dream,And lingering pause and lightly tread;Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!III.Away! we know that tears are vain,That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:Will this unteach us to complain?Or make one mourner weep the less?And thou—who tell'st me to forget,Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
I.
Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;But on thy turf shall roses rearTheir leaves, the earliest of the year;And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
II.
And oft by yon blue gushing streamShall Sorrow lean her drooping head,And feed deep thought with many a dream,And lingering pause and lightly tread;Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!
III.
Away! we know that tears are vain,That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:Will this unteach us to complain?Or make one mourner weep the less?And thou—who tell'st me to forget,Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
18.Song from "The Corsair."
I.Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,Lonely and lost to light for evermore,Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,Then trembles into silence as before.II.There, in its centre, a sepulchral lampBurns the slow flame, eternal—but unseen;Which not the darkness of Despair can damp,Though vain its ray as it had never been.III.Remember me—Oh! pass not thou my graveWithout one thought whose relics there recline:The only pang my bosom dare not braveMust be to find forgetfulness in thine.IV.My fondest—faintest—latest accents hear—Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove;Then give me all I ever asked—a tear,The first—last—sole reward of so much love!
I.
Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,Lonely and lost to light for evermore,Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,Then trembles into silence as before.
II.
There, in its centre, a sepulchral lampBurns the slow flame, eternal—but unseen;Which not the darkness of Despair can damp,Though vain its ray as it had never been.
III.
Remember me—Oh! pass not thou my graveWithout one thought whose relics there recline:The only pang my bosom dare not braveMust be to find forgetfulness in thine.
IV.
My fondest—faintest—latest accents hear—Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove;Then give me all I ever asked—a tear,The first—last—sole reward of so much love!
19.Song from "Don Juan."
I.The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!Where burning Sappho loved and sung,Where grew the arts of War and Peace,Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung!Eternal summer gilds them yet,But all, except their Sun, is set.II.The Scian and the Teian muse,The Hero's harp, the Lover's lute,Have found the fame your shores refuse:Their place of birth alone is muteTo sounds which echo further westThan your Sires' "Islands of the Blest."III.The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea;And musing there an hour alone,I dreamed that Greece might still be free;For standing on the Persians' grave,I could not deem myself a slave.IV.A King sate on the rocky browWhich looks o'er sea-born Salamis;And ships, by thousands, lay below,And men in nations;—all were his!He counted them at break of day—And, when the Sun set, where were they?V.And where are they? and where art thou,My Country? On thy voiceless shoreThe heroic lay is tuneless now—The heroic bosom beats no more!And must thy Lyre, so long divine,Degenerate into hands like mine?VI.'Tis something, in the dearth of Fame,Though linked among a fettered race,To feel at least a patriot's shame,Even as I sing, suffuse my face;For what is left the poet here?For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.VII.Mustwebut weep o'er days more blest?Mustwebut blush?—Our fathers bled.Earth! render back from out thy breastA remnant of our Spartan dead!Of the three hundred grant but three,To make a new Thermopylæ!VIII.What, silent still? and silent all?Ah! no;—the voices of the deadSound like a distant torrent's fall,And answer, "Let one living head,But one arise,—we come, we come!"'Tis but the living who are dumb.IX.In vain—in vain: strike other chords;Fill high the cup with Samian wine!Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,And shed the blood of Scio's vine!Hark! rising to the ignoble call—How answers each bold Bacchanal!X.You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?Of two such lessons, why forgetThe nobler and the manlier one?You have the letters Cadmus gave—Think ye he meant them for a slave?XI.Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!We will not think of themes like these!It made Anacreon's song divine:He served—but served Polycrates—A Tyrant; but our masters thenWere still, at least, our countrymen.XII.The Tyrant of the ChersoneseWas Freedom's best and bravest friend;Thattyrant was Miltiades!Oh! that the present hour would lendAnother despot of the kind!Such chains as his were sure to bind.XIII.Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,Exists the remnant of a lineSuch as the Doric mothers bore;And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,The Heracleidan blood might own.XIV.Trust not for freedom to the Franks—They have a king who buys and sells;In native swords, and native ranks,The only hope of courage dwells;But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,Would break your shield, however broad.XV.Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!Our virgins dance beneath the shade—I see their glorious black eyes shine;But gazing on each glowing maid,My own the burning tear-drop laves,To think such breasts must suckle slaves.XVI.Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,Where nothing, save the waves and I,May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;There, swan-like, let me sing and die:A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine—Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!Coleridge's Text.
I.
The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!Where burning Sappho loved and sung,Where grew the arts of War and Peace,Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung!Eternal summer gilds them yet,But all, except their Sun, is set.
II.
The Scian and the Teian muse,The Hero's harp, the Lover's lute,Have found the fame your shores refuse:Their place of birth alone is muteTo sounds which echo further westThan your Sires' "Islands of the Blest."
III.
The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea;And musing there an hour alone,I dreamed that Greece might still be free;For standing on the Persians' grave,I could not deem myself a slave.
IV.
A King sate on the rocky browWhich looks o'er sea-born Salamis;And ships, by thousands, lay below,And men in nations;—all were his!He counted them at break of day—And, when the Sun set, where were they?
V.
And where are they? and where art thou,My Country? On thy voiceless shoreThe heroic lay is tuneless now—The heroic bosom beats no more!And must thy Lyre, so long divine,Degenerate into hands like mine?
VI.
'Tis something, in the dearth of Fame,Though linked among a fettered race,To feel at least a patriot's shame,Even as I sing, suffuse my face;For what is left the poet here?For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.
VII.
Mustwebut weep o'er days more blest?Mustwebut blush?—Our fathers bled.Earth! render back from out thy breastA remnant of our Spartan dead!Of the three hundred grant but three,To make a new Thermopylæ!
VIII.
What, silent still? and silent all?Ah! no;—the voices of the deadSound like a distant torrent's fall,And answer, "Let one living head,But one arise,—we come, we come!"'Tis but the living who are dumb.
IX.
In vain—in vain: strike other chords;Fill high the cup with Samian wine!Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,And shed the blood of Scio's vine!Hark! rising to the ignoble call—How answers each bold Bacchanal!
X.
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?Of two such lessons, why forgetThe nobler and the manlier one?You have the letters Cadmus gave—Think ye he meant them for a slave?
XI.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!We will not think of themes like these!It made Anacreon's song divine:He served—but served Polycrates—A Tyrant; but our masters thenWere still, at least, our countrymen.
XII.
The Tyrant of the ChersoneseWas Freedom's best and bravest friend;Thattyrant was Miltiades!Oh! that the present hour would lendAnother despot of the kind!Such chains as his were sure to bind.
XIII.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,Exists the remnant of a lineSuch as the Doric mothers bore;And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,The Heracleidan blood might own.
XIV.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks—They have a king who buys and sells;In native swords, and native ranks,The only hope of courage dwells;But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,Would break your shield, however broad.
XV.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!Our virgins dance beneath the shade—I see their glorious black eyes shine;But gazing on each glowing maid,My own the burning tear-drop laves,To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
XVI.
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,Where nothing, save the waves and I,May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;There, swan-like, let me sing and die:A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine—Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
Coleridge's Text.
20.Hohenlinden.
On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast array'd,Each horseman drew his battle blade,And furious every charger neigh'd,To join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hills with thunder riv'n,Then rush'd the steed to battle driv'n,And louder than the bolts of heaven,Far flash'd the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glow,On Linden's hills of stained snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye brave,Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!And charge with all thy chivalry!Few, few, shall part where many meet!The snow shall be their winding sheet,And every turf beneath their feet,Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.1809 Edition.
On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,Each horseman drew his battle blade,And furious every charger neigh'd,To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riv'n,Then rush'd the steed to battle driv'n,And louder than the bolts of heaven,Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow,On Linden's hills of stained snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet!The snow shall be their winding sheet,And every turf beneath their feet,Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
1809 Edition.
21.Say not the Struggle Nought Availeth.
Say not, the struggle nought availeth,The labour and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;It may be, in yon smoke concealed,Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,And, but for you, possess the field.For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,Seem here no painful inch to gain,Far back, through creeks and inlets making,Comes silent, flooding in, the main.And not by eastern windows only,When daylight comes, comes in the light,In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,But westward, look, the land is bright.1869 Edition.
Say not, the struggle nought availeth,The labour and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;It may be, in yon smoke concealed,Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,Seem here no painful inch to gain,Far back, through creeks and inlets making,Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,When daylight comes, comes in the light,In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,But westward, look, the land is bright.
1869 Edition.
22.Youth and Age.
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—Both were mine! Life went a mayingWith Nature, Hope, and Poesy,When I was young!When I was young?—Ah, woful when!Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!This breathing house not built with hands,This body that does me grievous wrong,O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,How lightly then it flashed along:—Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,On winding lakes and rivers wide,That ask no aid of sail or oar,That fear no spite of wind or tide!Nought cared this body for wind or weatherWhen Youth and I liv'd in't together.Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;Friendship is a sheltering tree;O! the joys, that came down shower-like,Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,Ere I was old.Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!O Youth! for years so many and sweet'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,I'll think it but a fond conceit—It cannot be, that Thou art gone!Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:—And thou wert aye a masker bold!What strange disguise hast now put on,To make believe, that Thou art gone?I see these locks in silvery slips,This drooping gait, this altered size:But springtide blossoms on thy lips,And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!Life is but thought: so think I willThat Youth and I are house-mates still.Dew-drops are the gems of morning,But the tears of mournful eve!Where no hope is, life's a warningThat only serves to make us grieve,When we are old:That only serves to make us grieveWith oft and tedious taking-leave,Like some poor nigh-related guest,That may not rudely be dismist.Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,And tells the jest without the smile.1869 Edition.
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—Both were mine! Life went a mayingWith Nature, Hope, and Poesy,When I was young!
When I was young?—Ah, woful when!Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!This breathing house not built with hands,This body that does me grievous wrong,O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,How lightly then it flashed along:—Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,On winding lakes and rivers wide,That ask no aid of sail or oar,That fear no spite of wind or tide!Nought cared this body for wind or weatherWhen Youth and I liv'd in't together.Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;Friendship is a sheltering tree;O! the joys, that came down shower-like,Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,Ere I was old.
Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!O Youth! for years so many and sweet'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,I'll think it but a fond conceit—It cannot be, that Thou art gone!Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:—And thou wert aye a masker bold!What strange disguise hast now put on,To make believe, that Thou art gone?I see these locks in silvery slips,This drooping gait, this altered size:But springtide blossoms on thy lips,And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!Life is but thought: so think I willThat Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,But the tears of mournful eve!Where no hope is, life's a warningThat only serves to make us grieve,When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieveWith oft and tedious taking-leave,Like some poor nigh-related guest,That may not rudely be dismist.Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,And tells the jest without the smile.
1869 Edition.
23.Written in the Year 1746.
How sleep the brave, who sink to restBy all their country's wishes bless'd!When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,She there shall dress a sweeter sodThan Fancy's feet have ever trod.By fairy hands their knell is rung;By forms unseen their dirge is sung;There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,To bless the turf that wraps their clay;And Freedom shall a while repair,To dwell a weeping hermit there.1822 Edition.
How sleep the brave, who sink to restBy all their country's wishes bless'd!When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,She there shall dress a sweeter sodThan Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;By forms unseen their dirge is sung;There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,To bless the turf that wraps their clay;And Freedom shall a while repair,To dwell a weeping hermit there.
1822 Edition.
24.To a Young Lady.
Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade,Apt emblem of a virtuous maid—Silent and chaste she steals along,Far from the world's gay busy throng,With gentle, yet prevailing, force,Intent upon her destin'd course;Graceful and useful all she does,Blessing and blest where'er she goes,Pure-bosom'd as that wat'ry glass,And heav'n reflected in her face.1813 Edition.
Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade,Apt emblem of a virtuous maid—Silent and chaste she steals along,Far from the world's gay busy throng,With gentle, yet prevailing, force,Intent upon her destin'd course;Graceful and useful all she does,Blessing and blest where'er she goes,Pure-bosom'd as that wat'ry glass,And heav'n reflected in her face.
1813 Edition.
25.A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fast,And fills the white and rustling sail,And bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While, like the eagle free,Away 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 breeze,And white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my boys,The good ship tight and free—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.There's tempest in yon horned moon,And lightning in yon cloud;And hark the music, mariners!The wind is piping loud;The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashing free—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.1847 Edition.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fast,And fills the white and rustling sail,And bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While, like the eagle free,Away 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 breeze,And white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my boys,The good ship tight and free—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon horned moon,And lightning in yon cloud;And hark the music, mariners!The wind is piping loud;The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashing free—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.
1847 Edition.
26.Song.
The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings;He takes this window for the east;And to implore your light, he sings:"Awake, awake! the morn will never rise,Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes."The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,The ploughman from the sun his season takes;But still the lover wonders what they are,Who look for day before his mistress wakes.Awake, awake! break thro' your veils of lawn!Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn."1810 Edition.
The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings;He takes this window for the east;And to implore your light, he sings:"Awake, awake! the morn will never rise,Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
"The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,The ploughman from the sun his season takes;But still the lover wonders what they are,Who look for day before his mistress wakes.Awake, awake! break thro' your veils of lawn!Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn."
1810 Edition.
27.A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687.
I.From harmony, from heav'nly harmonyThis universal frame began:When nature underneath a heapOf jarring atoms lay,And cou'd not heave her head,The tuneful voice was heard from high,Arise, ye more than dead.Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,In order to their stations leap,And Music's power obey.From harmony, from heavenly harmonyThis universal frame began:From harmony to harmonyThrough all the compass of the notes it ran,The diapason closing full in Man.II.What passion cannot Music raise and quell!When Jubal struck the corded shell,His list'ning brethren stood around,And, wond'ring, on their faces fellTo worship that celestial sound.Less than a God they thought there could not dwellWithin the hollow of that shell,That spoke so sweetly and so well.What passion cannot Music raise and quell!III.The trumpet's loud clangourExcites us to arms,With shrill notes of angerAnd mortal alarms.The double double double beatOf the thund'ring drumCries, Hark! the foes come;Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat.IV.The soft complaining fluteIn dying notes discoversThe woes of hopeless lovers,Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.V.Sharp violins proclaimTheir jealous pangs, and desperation,Fury, frantic indignation,Depth of pains, and height of passion,For the fair, disdainful dame.VI.But oh! what art can teach,What human voice can reach,The sacred organ's praise?Notes inspiring holy love,Notes that wing their heavenly waysTo mend the choirs above.VII.Orpheus cou'd lead the savage race;And trees uprooted left their place,Sequacious of the lyre:But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher:When to her organ vocal breath was giv'n,An angel heard, and straight appear'd,Mistaking Earth for Heav'n.Grand Chorus.As from the pow'r of sacred laysThe spheres began to move,And sung the great Creator's praiseTo all the Bless'd above;So when the last and dreadful hourThis crumbling pageant shall devour,The trumpet shall be heard on high,The dead shall live, the living die,And Music shall untune the sky.1743 Edition.
I.
From harmony, from heav'nly harmonyThis universal frame began:When nature underneath a heapOf jarring atoms lay,And cou'd not heave her head,The tuneful voice was heard from high,Arise, ye more than dead.Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,In order to their stations leap,And Music's power obey.From harmony, from heavenly harmonyThis universal frame began:From harmony to harmonyThrough all the compass of the notes it ran,The diapason closing full in Man.
II.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell!When Jubal struck the corded shell,His list'ning brethren stood around,And, wond'ring, on their faces fellTo worship that celestial sound.Less than a God they thought there could not dwellWithin the hollow of that shell,That spoke so sweetly and so well.What passion cannot Music raise and quell!
III.
The trumpet's loud clangourExcites us to arms,With shrill notes of angerAnd mortal alarms.The double double double beatOf the thund'ring drumCries, Hark! the foes come;Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat.
IV.
The soft complaining fluteIn dying notes discoversThe woes of hopeless lovers,Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
V.
Sharp violins proclaimTheir jealous pangs, and desperation,Fury, frantic indignation,Depth of pains, and height of passion,For the fair, disdainful dame.
VI.
But oh! what art can teach,What human voice can reach,The sacred organ's praise?Notes inspiring holy love,Notes that wing their heavenly waysTo mend the choirs above.
VII.
Orpheus cou'd lead the savage race;And trees uprooted left their place,Sequacious of the lyre:But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher:When to her organ vocal breath was giv'n,An angel heard, and straight appear'd,Mistaking Earth for Heav'n.
Grand Chorus.
As from the pow'r of sacred laysThe spheres began to move,And sung the great Creator's praiseTo all the Bless'd above;So when the last and dreadful hourThis crumbling pageant shall devour,The trumpet shall be heard on high,The dead shall live, the living die,And Music shall untune the sky.
1743 Edition.