Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awaken'd flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chauntMatch'd with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What field, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?With thy clear, keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.Waking or asleepThou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet if we could scornHate and pride and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now!—Shelley.SELECTIONS FOR INTERPRETATIONThe following selections from lyric poetry are designed to give the voice exercise in the expression of varied emotions.ITHE DAFFODILSI wander'd lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host of golden daffodils,Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretch'd in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glanceTossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:—A Poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company!I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought;For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.—Wordsworth.IIBY THE SEAIt is a beauteous evening, calm and free;The holy time is quiet as a NunBreathless with adoration; the broad sunIs sinking down in its tranquillity;The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:Listen! the mighty Being is awake,And doth with his eternal motion makeA sound like thunder—everlastingly.Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thoughtThy nature is not therefore less divine:Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,God being with thee when we know it not.—Wordsworth.IIITO THE CUCKOOO blithe new-comer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice:O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,Or but a wandering Voice?While I am lying on the grassThy twofold shout I hear;From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off and near.Though babbling only to the valeOf sunshine and of flowers,Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery;The same whom in my school-boy daysI listen'd to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love,Still long'd for, never seen!And I can listen to thee yet,Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.O blesséd Bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial, faery place,That is fit home for Thee!—Wordsworth.IVODE TO THE WEST WINDO wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thouWho chariotest to their dark wintry bedThe wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the Spring shall blowHer clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)With living hues and odours plain and hill:Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear!Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,Angels of rain and lightning! there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the headOf some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith's height—The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,Vaulted with all thy congregated mightOf vapours, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear!Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave's intenser day,All overgrown with azure moss, and flowersSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic's level powersCleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, knowThy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fearAnd tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear!If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power, and shareThe impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan Thou, O uncontrollable! If evenI were as in my boyhood, and could beThe comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speedScarce seem'd a vision,—I would ne'er have strivenAs thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'dOne too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own!The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;And, by the incantation of this verse,Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawaken'd earthThe trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?—Shelley.VTO THE NIGHTSwiftly 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 sea and city 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, beloved Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!—Shelley.VIODE TO A GRECIAN URNThou still unravish'd bride of quietness,Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,Sylvan historian, who canst thus expressA flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shapeOf deities or mortals, or of both,In Tempé or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leaveThy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!Ah happy, happy boughs! that cannot shedYour leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;And, happy melodist, unweariéd,For ever piping songs for ever new;More happy love! more happy, happy love!For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,For ever panting, and for ever young;All breathing human passion far above,That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.Who are these coming to the sacrifice?To what green altar, O mysterious priest,Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?What little town by river or sea shore,Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?And, little town, thy streets for evermoreWill silent be; and not a soul to tellWhy thou art desolate, can e'er return.O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with bredeOf marble men and maidens overwrought,With forest branches and the trodden weed;Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!When old age shall this generation wasteThou shalt remain, in midst of other woeThan ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"—that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.—Keats.VIIIt was a lover and his lassWith a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!That o'er the green corn-field did passIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing hey ding a ding:Sweet lovers love the Spring.Between the acres of the ryeThese pretty country folks would lie:This carol they began that hour,How that life was but a flower:And therefore take the present timeWith a hey and a ho and a hey nonino!For love is crownéd with the primeIn spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing hey ding a ding:Sweet lovers love the Spring.—Shakespeare.VIIIPack, clouds, away, and welcome day,With night we banish sorrow;Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloftTo give my Love good-morrow!Wings from the wind to please her mindNotes from the lark I'll borrow;Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,To give my Love good-morrow;To give my Love good-morrowNotes from them both I'll borrow.Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,Sing, birds, in every furrow;And from each hill, let music shrillGive my fair Love good-morrow!Blackbird and thrush in every bush,Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!You pretty elves, amongst yourselvesSing my fair Love good-morrow;To give my Love good-morrowSing, birds, in every furrow!—Heywood.IXTHE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVECome live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dale and field,And all the craggy mountains yield.There will we sit upon the rocksAnd see the shepherds feed their flocks,By shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.There will I make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies,A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull,Fair linéd slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.A belt of straw and ivy budsWith coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my Love.Thy silver dishes for thy meatAs precious as the gods do eat,Shall on an ivory table bePrepared each day for thee and me.The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May-morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my Love.—Marlowe.XHUNTING SONGWaken, lords and ladies gay,On the mountain dawns the day;All the jolly chase is hereWith hawk and horse and hunting-spear;Hounds are in their couples yelling,Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,Merrily, merrily mingle they,"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Waken, lords and ladies gay,The mist has left the mountain gray,Springlets in the dawn are steaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green;Now we come to chant our lay"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Waken, lords and ladies gay,To the greenwood haste away;We can show you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can show the marks he madeWhen 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;You shall see him brought to bay;"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Louder, louder chant the layWaken, lords and ladies gay!Tell them youth and mirth and gleeRun a course as well as we;Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;Think of this, and rise with day,Gentle lords and ladies gay!—Scott.XIBesides the rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, theGentiana Majorgrows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue."HYMNBEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNIHast thou a charm to stay the morning-starIn his steep course? So long he seems to pauseOn thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!The Arve and Arveiron at thy baseRave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,How silently! Around thee and aboveDeep is the air and dark, substantial, black,An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,As with a wedge! But when I look again,It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,Thy habitation from eternity!O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayerI worshiped the Invisible alone.Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,Into the mighty vision passing—thereAs in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!Awake, my Soul! not only passive praiseThou owest! not alone these swelling tears,Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, awake!Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale!O struggling with the darkness all the night,And visited all night by troops of stars,Or when they climb the sky or when they sink;Companion of the morning-star at dawn,Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawnCo-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!Who called you forth from night and utter death,From dark and icy caverns called you forth,Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rocks,Forever shattered and the same forever?Who gave you your invulnerable life,Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?And who commanded (and the silence came),Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's browAdown enormous ravines slope amain—Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!Who made you glorious as the gates of HeavenBeneath the keen full moon? Who bade the SunClothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?—God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the element!Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure sereneInto the depth of clouds that veil thy breast—Thou too again—stupendous Mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemest like a vapory cloud,To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth!Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.—Coleridge.XIIJAUN'S SONG FROM THE SPANISH GYPSYMemory,Tell to meWhat is fairPast compareIn the land of Tubal?Is it Spring'sLovely things,Blossoms white,Rosy dight?Then it is Pepita.Summer's crestRed-gold tressed,Corn-flowers peeping under?Idle noons,Lingering moons,Sudden cloud,Lightning's shroud,Sudden rain,Quick againSmiles where late was thunder?Are all theseMade to please?So too is Pepita.Autumn's prime,Apple-time,Smooth cheek round,Heart all sound?—Is it thisYou would kiss?Then it is Pepita.You can bringNo sweet thing,But my mindStill shall findIt is my Pepita.MemorySays to meIt is she—She is fairPast compareIn the land of Tubal.XIIIPABLO'S SONG FROM THE SPANISH GYPSYSpring comes hither,Buds the rose;Roses wither,Sweet spring goes.Ojala, would she carry me!Summer soars—Wide-winged day,White light pours,Flies away.Ojala, would he carry me!Soft winds blow,Westward born,Onward goToward the morn.Ojala, would they carry me!Sweet birds singO'er the graves,Then take wingO'er the waves.Ojala, would they carry me!—George Eliot.XIVMEMORY[5]My mind lets go a thousand things,Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,And yet recalls the very hour—'Twas noon by yonder village tower,And on the last blue noon in May—The wind came briskly up this way,Crisping the brook beside the road;Then, pausing here, set down its loadOf pine-scents, and shook listlesslyTwo petals from that wild-rose-tree.XVENAMOURED ARCHITECT OF AIRY RHYMEEnamoured architect of airy rhyme,Build as thou wilt; heed not what each man says:Good souls, but innocent of dreamer's ways,Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time;Others, beholding how thy turrets climb'Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all thy days;But most beware of those who come to praise.O Wondersmith, O Worker in sublimeAnd Heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all;Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame,Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given:Then, if at last the airy structure fall,Dissolve, and vanish—take thyself no shame.They fail, and they alone, who have not striven.—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.XVILOVE IN THE WINDS[6]When I am standing on a mountain crest,Or hold the tiller in the dashing spray,My love of you leaps foaming in my breast,Shouts with the winds and sweeps to their foray;My heart bounds with the horses of the sea,And plunges in the wild ride of the nightFlaunts in the teeth of tempest the large gleeThat rides out Fate and welcomes gods to fight.Ho, love, I laugh aloud for love of you,Glad that our love is fellow to rough weather,—No fretful orchid hot-housed from the dew,But hale and hardy as the highland heather,Rejoicing in the wind that stings and thrills,Comrades of ocean, playmate of the hills.—Richard Hovey.XVIICANDLEMAS[7]O hearken, all ye little weedsThat lie beneath the snow,(So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!)The sun hath risen for royal deeds,A valiant wind the vanguard leads;Now quicken ye, lest unborn seedsBefore ye rise and blow.O furry living things, adreamOn Winter's drowsy breast,(How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!)Arise and follow where a gleamOf wizard gold unbinds the stream,And all the woodland windings seemWith sweet expectance blest.My birds, come back! the hollow skyIs weary for your note.(Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!)Ere May's soft minions hereward fly,Shame on ye, laggards, to denyThe brooding breast, the sun-bright eye,The tawny, shining coat!—Alice Brown.Mr. Gilbert Chesterton tells us that the real Robert Browning of literary history arrived with theDramatic Lyrics. "In Dramatic Lyrics," says Mr. Chesterton, "Browning discovered the one thing that he could really do better than any one else—the dramatic lyric. The form is absolutely original; he had discovered a new field of poetry,and in the center of that field he had found himself." The form is new, but it obeys the fundamental law of lyric poetry, and so in our study belongs to this chapter. The new element which the word "dramatic" suggests makes a new and a somewhat broader demand upon the interpreter; therefore I have chosen this group ofDramatic Lyricsfrom Browning as the material for your final study of this form:MY STARAll that I knowOf a certain starIs, it can throw(Like the angled spar)Now a dart of red,Now a dart of blue;Till my friends have saidThey would fain see, too,My star that dartles the red and the blue!Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.What matter to me if their star is a world?Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.CAVALIER TUNESMARCHING ALONGKentish Sir Byng stood for his King,Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing.And, pressing a troop unable to stoopAnd see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,Marched them along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.God for King Charles! Pym and such carlesTo the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor supTill you're—(Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knellServe Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!England, good cheer! Rupert is near!Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here,(Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarlsTo the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!Hold by the right, you double your might;So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight.(Chorus) March we along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!
Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awaken'd flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chauntMatch'd with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What field, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?With thy clear, keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.Waking or asleepThou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet if we could scornHate and pride and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now!—Shelley.
Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awaken'd flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chauntMatch'd with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What field, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear, keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleepThou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scornHate and pride and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now!
—Shelley.
—Shelley.
The following selections from lyric poetry are designed to give the voice exercise in the expression of varied emotions.
I
THE DAFFODILSI wander'd lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host of golden daffodils,Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretch'd in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glanceTossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:—A Poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company!I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought;For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.—Wordsworth.
I wander'd lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host of golden daffodils,Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretch'd in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glanceTossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:—A Poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company!I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought;
For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.
—Wordsworth.
—Wordsworth.
II
BY THE SEAIt is a beauteous evening, calm and free;The holy time is quiet as a NunBreathless with adoration; the broad sunIs sinking down in its tranquillity;The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:Listen! the mighty Being is awake,And doth with his eternal motion makeA sound like thunder—everlastingly.Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thoughtThy nature is not therefore less divine:Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,God being with thee when we know it not.—Wordsworth.
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;The holy time is quiet as a NunBreathless with adoration; the broad sunIs sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:Listen! the mighty Being is awake,And doth with his eternal motion makeA sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thoughtThy nature is not therefore less divine:Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,God being with thee when we know it not.
—Wordsworth.
—Wordsworth.
III
TO THE CUCKOOO blithe new-comer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice:O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,Or but a wandering Voice?While I am lying on the grassThy twofold shout I hear;From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off and near.Though babbling only to the valeOf sunshine and of flowers,Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery;The same whom in my school-boy daysI listen'd to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love,Still long'd for, never seen!And I can listen to thee yet,Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.O blesséd Bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial, faery place,That is fit home for Thee!—Wordsworth.
O blithe new-comer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice:O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grassThy twofold shout I hear;From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off and near.
Though babbling only to the valeOf sunshine and of flowers,Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy daysI listen'd to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love,Still long'd for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet,Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.
O blesséd Bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial, faery place,That is fit home for Thee!
—Wordsworth.
—Wordsworth.
IV
ODE TO THE WEST WINDO wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thouWho chariotest to their dark wintry bedThe wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the Spring shall blowHer clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)With living hues and odours plain and hill:Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear!Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,Angels of rain and lightning! there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the headOf some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith's height—The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,Vaulted with all thy congregated mightOf vapours, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear!Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave's intenser day,All overgrown with azure moss, and flowersSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic's level powersCleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, knowThy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fearAnd tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear!If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power, and shareThe impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan Thou, O uncontrollable! If evenI were as in my boyhood, and could beThe comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speedScarce seem'd a vision,—I would ne'er have strivenAs thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'dOne too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own!The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;And, by the incantation of this verse,Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawaken'd earthThe trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?—Shelley.
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thouWho chariotest to their dark wintry bedThe wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the Spring shall blowHer clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)With living hues and odours plain and hill:Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear!
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,Angels of rain and lightning! there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the headOf some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith's height—The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,Vaulted with all thy congregated mightOf vapours, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear!
Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave's intenser day,All overgrown with azure moss, and flowersSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic's level powersCleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, knowThy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fearAnd tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear!
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power, and shareThe impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan Thou, O uncontrollable! If evenI were as in my boyhood, and could beThe comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speedScarce seem'd a vision,—I would ne'er have strivenAs thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'dOne too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.
Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own!The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;And, by the incantation of this verse,Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawaken'd earthThe trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
—Shelley.
—Shelley.
V
TO THE NIGHTSwiftly 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 sea and city 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, beloved Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!—Shelley.
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 sea and city 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, beloved Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!
—Shelley.
—Shelley.
VI
ODE TO A GRECIAN URNThou still unravish'd bride of quietness,Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,Sylvan historian, who canst thus expressA flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shapeOf deities or mortals, or of both,In Tempé or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leaveThy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!Ah happy, happy boughs! that cannot shedYour leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;And, happy melodist, unweariéd,For ever piping songs for ever new;More happy love! more happy, happy love!For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,For ever panting, and for ever young;All breathing human passion far above,That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.Who are these coming to the sacrifice?To what green altar, O mysterious priest,Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?What little town by river or sea shore,Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?And, little town, thy streets for evermoreWill silent be; and not a soul to tellWhy thou art desolate, can e'er return.O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with bredeOf marble men and maidens overwrought,With forest branches and the trodden weed;Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!When old age shall this generation wasteThou shalt remain, in midst of other woeThan ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"—that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.—Keats.
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,Sylvan historian, who canst thus expressA flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shapeOf deities or mortals, or of both,In Tempé or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leaveThy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah happy, happy boughs! that cannot shedYour leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;And, happy melodist, unweariéd,For ever piping songs for ever new;More happy love! more happy, happy love!For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,For ever panting, and for ever young;All breathing human passion far above,That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?To what green altar, O mysterious priest,Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?What little town by river or sea shore,Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?And, little town, thy streets for evermoreWill silent be; and not a soul to tellWhy thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with bredeOf marble men and maidens overwrought,With forest branches and the trodden weed;Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!When old age shall this generation wasteThou shalt remain, in midst of other woeThan ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"—that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.
—Keats.
—Keats.
VII
It was a lover and his lassWith a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!That o'er the green corn-field did passIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing hey ding a ding:Sweet lovers love the Spring.Between the acres of the ryeThese pretty country folks would lie:This carol they began that hour,How that life was but a flower:And therefore take the present timeWith a hey and a ho and a hey nonino!For love is crownéd with the primeIn spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing hey ding a ding:Sweet lovers love the Spring.—Shakespeare.
It was a lover and his lassWith a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!That o'er the green corn-field did passIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing hey ding a ding:Sweet lovers love the Spring.
Between the acres of the ryeThese pretty country folks would lie:This carol they began that hour,How that life was but a flower:
And therefore take the present timeWith a hey and a ho and a hey nonino!For love is crownéd with the primeIn spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing hey ding a ding:Sweet lovers love the Spring.
—Shakespeare.
—Shakespeare.
VIII
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,With night we banish sorrow;Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloftTo give my Love good-morrow!Wings from the wind to please her mindNotes from the lark I'll borrow;Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,To give my Love good-morrow;To give my Love good-morrowNotes from them both I'll borrow.Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,Sing, birds, in every furrow;And from each hill, let music shrillGive my fair Love good-morrow!Blackbird and thrush in every bush,Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!You pretty elves, amongst yourselvesSing my fair Love good-morrow;To give my Love good-morrowSing, birds, in every furrow!—Heywood.
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,With night we banish sorrow;Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloftTo give my Love good-morrow!Wings from the wind to please her mindNotes from the lark I'll borrow;Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,To give my Love good-morrow;To give my Love good-morrowNotes from them both I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,Sing, birds, in every furrow;And from each hill, let music shrillGive my fair Love good-morrow!Blackbird and thrush in every bush,Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!You pretty elves, amongst yourselvesSing my fair Love good-morrow;To give my Love good-morrowSing, birds, in every furrow!
—Heywood.
—Heywood.
IX
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVECome live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dale and field,And all the craggy mountains yield.There will we sit upon the rocksAnd see the shepherds feed their flocks,By shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.There will I make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies,A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull,Fair linéd slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.A belt of straw and ivy budsWith coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my Love.Thy silver dishes for thy meatAs precious as the gods do eat,Shall on an ivory table bePrepared each day for thee and me.The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May-morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my Love.—Marlowe.
Come live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dale and field,And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocksAnd see the shepherds feed their flocks,By shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies,A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull,Fair linéd slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy budsWith coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my Love.
Thy silver dishes for thy meatAs precious as the gods do eat,Shall on an ivory table bePrepared each day for thee and me.
The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May-morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my Love.
—Marlowe.
—Marlowe.
X
HUNTING SONGWaken, lords and ladies gay,On the mountain dawns the day;All the jolly chase is hereWith hawk and horse and hunting-spear;Hounds are in their couples yelling,Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,Merrily, merrily mingle they,"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Waken, lords and ladies gay,The mist has left the mountain gray,Springlets in the dawn are steaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green;Now we come to chant our lay"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Waken, lords and ladies gay,To the greenwood haste away;We can show you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can show the marks he madeWhen 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;You shall see him brought to bay;"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Louder, louder chant the layWaken, lords and ladies gay!Tell them youth and mirth and gleeRun a course as well as we;Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;Think of this, and rise with day,Gentle lords and ladies gay!—Scott.
Waken, lords and ladies gay,On the mountain dawns the day;All the jolly chase is hereWith hawk and horse and hunting-spear;Hounds are in their couples yelling,Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,Merrily, merrily mingle they,"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,The mist has left the mountain gray,Springlets in the dawn are steaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green;Now we come to chant our lay"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,To the greenwood haste away;We can show you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can show the marks he madeWhen 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;You shall see him brought to bay;"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Louder, louder chant the layWaken, lords and ladies gay!Tell them youth and mirth and gleeRun a course as well as we;Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;Think of this, and rise with day,Gentle lords and ladies gay!
—Scott.
—Scott.
XI
Besides the rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, theGentiana Majorgrows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue."
HYMNBEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNIHast thou a charm to stay the morning-starIn his steep course? So long he seems to pauseOn thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!The Arve and Arveiron at thy baseRave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,How silently! Around thee and aboveDeep is the air and dark, substantial, black,An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,As with a wedge! But when I look again,It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,Thy habitation from eternity!O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayerI worshiped the Invisible alone.Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,Into the mighty vision passing—thereAs in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!Awake, my Soul! not only passive praiseThou owest! not alone these swelling tears,Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, awake!Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale!O struggling with the darkness all the night,And visited all night by troops of stars,Or when they climb the sky or when they sink;Companion of the morning-star at dawn,Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawnCo-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!Who called you forth from night and utter death,From dark and icy caverns called you forth,Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rocks,Forever shattered and the same forever?Who gave you your invulnerable life,Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?And who commanded (and the silence came),Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's browAdown enormous ravines slope amain—Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!Who made you glorious as the gates of HeavenBeneath the keen full moon? Who bade the SunClothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?—God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the element!Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure sereneInto the depth of clouds that veil thy breast—Thou too again—stupendous Mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemest like a vapory cloud,To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth!Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.—Coleridge.
HYMN
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-starIn his steep course? So long he seems to pauseOn thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!The Arve and Arveiron at thy baseRave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,How silently! Around thee and aboveDeep is the air and dark, substantial, black,An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,As with a wedge! But when I look again,It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,Thy habitation from eternity!O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayerI worshiped the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,Into the mighty vision passing—thereAs in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!Awake, my Soul! not only passive praiseThou owest! not alone these swelling tears,Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, awake!Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.
Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale!O struggling with the darkness all the night,And visited all night by troops of stars,Or when they climb the sky or when they sink;Companion of the morning-star at dawn,Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawnCo-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!Who called you forth from night and utter death,From dark and icy caverns called you forth,Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rocks,Forever shattered and the same forever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?And who commanded (and the silence came),Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's browAdown enormous ravines slope amain—Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!Who made you glorious as the gates of HeavenBeneath the keen full moon? Who bade the SunClothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?—God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the element!Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!
Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure sereneInto the depth of clouds that veil thy breast—Thou too again—stupendous Mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemest like a vapory cloud,To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth!Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
—Coleridge.
—Coleridge.
XII
JAUN'S SONG FROM THE SPANISH GYPSYMemory,Tell to meWhat is fairPast compareIn the land of Tubal?Is it Spring'sLovely things,Blossoms white,Rosy dight?Then it is Pepita.Summer's crestRed-gold tressed,Corn-flowers peeping under?Idle noons,Lingering moons,Sudden cloud,Lightning's shroud,Sudden rain,Quick againSmiles where late was thunder?Are all theseMade to please?So too is Pepita.Autumn's prime,Apple-time,Smooth cheek round,Heart all sound?—Is it thisYou would kiss?Then it is Pepita.You can bringNo sweet thing,But my mindStill shall findIt is my Pepita.MemorySays to meIt is she—She is fairPast compareIn the land of Tubal.
Memory,Tell to meWhat is fairPast compareIn the land of Tubal?
Is it Spring'sLovely things,Blossoms white,Rosy dight?Then it is Pepita.
Summer's crestRed-gold tressed,Corn-flowers peeping under?Idle noons,Lingering moons,Sudden cloud,Lightning's shroud,
Sudden rain,Quick againSmiles where late was thunder?Are all theseMade to please?So too is Pepita.
Autumn's prime,Apple-time,Smooth cheek round,Heart all sound?—Is it thisYou would kiss?Then it is Pepita.
You can bringNo sweet thing,But my mindStill shall findIt is my Pepita.
MemorySays to meIt is she—She is fairPast compareIn the land of Tubal.
XIII
PABLO'S SONG FROM THE SPANISH GYPSYSpring comes hither,Buds the rose;Roses wither,Sweet spring goes.Ojala, would she carry me!Summer soars—Wide-winged day,White light pours,Flies away.Ojala, would he carry me!Soft winds blow,Westward born,Onward goToward the morn.Ojala, would they carry me!Sweet birds singO'er the graves,Then take wingO'er the waves.Ojala, would they carry me!—George Eliot.
Spring comes hither,Buds the rose;Roses wither,Sweet spring goes.Ojala, would she carry me!
Summer soars—Wide-winged day,White light pours,Flies away.Ojala, would he carry me!
Soft winds blow,Westward born,Onward goToward the morn.Ojala, would they carry me!
Sweet birds singO'er the graves,Then take wingO'er the waves.Ojala, would they carry me!
—George Eliot.
—George Eliot.
XIV
MEMORY[5]My mind lets go a thousand things,Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,And yet recalls the very hour—'Twas noon by yonder village tower,And on the last blue noon in May—The wind came briskly up this way,Crisping the brook beside the road;Then, pausing here, set down its loadOf pine-scents, and shook listlesslyTwo petals from that wild-rose-tree.
My mind lets go a thousand things,Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,And yet recalls the very hour—'Twas noon by yonder village tower,And on the last blue noon in May—The wind came briskly up this way,Crisping the brook beside the road;Then, pausing here, set down its loadOf pine-scents, and shook listlesslyTwo petals from that wild-rose-tree.
XV
ENAMOURED ARCHITECT OF AIRY RHYMEEnamoured architect of airy rhyme,Build as thou wilt; heed not what each man says:Good souls, but innocent of dreamer's ways,Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time;Others, beholding how thy turrets climb'Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all thy days;But most beware of those who come to praise.O Wondersmith, O Worker in sublimeAnd Heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all;Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame,Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given:Then, if at last the airy structure fall,Dissolve, and vanish—take thyself no shame.They fail, and they alone, who have not striven.—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
Enamoured architect of airy rhyme,Build as thou wilt; heed not what each man says:Good souls, but innocent of dreamer's ways,Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time;Others, beholding how thy turrets climb'Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all thy days;But most beware of those who come to praise.O Wondersmith, O Worker in sublimeAnd Heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all;Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame,Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given:Then, if at last the airy structure fall,Dissolve, and vanish—take thyself no shame.They fail, and they alone, who have not striven.
—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
XVI
LOVE IN THE WINDS[6]When I am standing on a mountain crest,Or hold the tiller in the dashing spray,My love of you leaps foaming in my breast,Shouts with the winds and sweeps to their foray;My heart bounds with the horses of the sea,And plunges in the wild ride of the nightFlaunts in the teeth of tempest the large gleeThat rides out Fate and welcomes gods to fight.Ho, love, I laugh aloud for love of you,Glad that our love is fellow to rough weather,—No fretful orchid hot-housed from the dew,But hale and hardy as the highland heather,Rejoicing in the wind that stings and thrills,Comrades of ocean, playmate of the hills.—Richard Hovey.
When I am standing on a mountain crest,Or hold the tiller in the dashing spray,My love of you leaps foaming in my breast,Shouts with the winds and sweeps to their foray;My heart bounds with the horses of the sea,And plunges in the wild ride of the nightFlaunts in the teeth of tempest the large gleeThat rides out Fate and welcomes gods to fight.Ho, love, I laugh aloud for love of you,Glad that our love is fellow to rough weather,—No fretful orchid hot-housed from the dew,But hale and hardy as the highland heather,Rejoicing in the wind that stings and thrills,Comrades of ocean, playmate of the hills.
—Richard Hovey.
—Richard Hovey.
XVII
CANDLEMAS[7]O hearken, all ye little weedsThat lie beneath the snow,(So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!)The sun hath risen for royal deeds,A valiant wind the vanguard leads;Now quicken ye, lest unborn seedsBefore ye rise and blow.O furry living things, adreamOn Winter's drowsy breast,(How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!)Arise and follow where a gleamOf wizard gold unbinds the stream,And all the woodland windings seemWith sweet expectance blest.My birds, come back! the hollow skyIs weary for your note.(Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!)Ere May's soft minions hereward fly,Shame on ye, laggards, to denyThe brooding breast, the sun-bright eye,The tawny, shining coat!—Alice Brown.
O hearken, all ye little weedsThat lie beneath the snow,(So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!)The sun hath risen for royal deeds,A valiant wind the vanguard leads;Now quicken ye, lest unborn seedsBefore ye rise and blow.
O furry living things, adreamOn Winter's drowsy breast,(How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!)Arise and follow where a gleamOf wizard gold unbinds the stream,And all the woodland windings seemWith sweet expectance blest.
My birds, come back! the hollow skyIs weary for your note.(Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!)Ere May's soft minions hereward fly,Shame on ye, laggards, to denyThe brooding breast, the sun-bright eye,The tawny, shining coat!
—Alice Brown.
—Alice Brown.
Mr. Gilbert Chesterton tells us that the real Robert Browning of literary history arrived with theDramatic Lyrics. "In Dramatic Lyrics," says Mr. Chesterton, "Browning discovered the one thing that he could really do better than any one else—the dramatic lyric. The form is absolutely original; he had discovered a new field of poetry,and in the center of that field he had found himself." The form is new, but it obeys the fundamental law of lyric poetry, and so in our study belongs to this chapter. The new element which the word "dramatic" suggests makes a new and a somewhat broader demand upon the interpreter; therefore I have chosen this group ofDramatic Lyricsfrom Browning as the material for your final study of this form:
MY STARAll that I knowOf a certain starIs, it can throw(Like the angled spar)Now a dart of red,Now a dart of blue;Till my friends have saidThey would fain see, too,My star that dartles the red and the blue!Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.What matter to me if their star is a world?Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.
All that I knowOf a certain starIs, it can throw(Like the angled spar)Now a dart of red,Now a dart of blue;Till my friends have saidThey would fain see, too,My star that dartles the red and the blue!Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.What matter to me if their star is a world?Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.
CAVALIER TUNESMARCHING ALONGKentish Sir Byng stood for his King,Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing.And, pressing a troop unable to stoopAnd see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,Marched them along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.God for King Charles! Pym and such carlesTo the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor supTill you're—(Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knellServe Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!England, good cheer! Rupert is near!Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here,(Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarlsTo the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!Hold by the right, you double your might;So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight.(Chorus) March we along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!
CAVALIER TUNES
Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King,Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing.And, pressing a troop unable to stoopAnd see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,Marched them along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.
God for King Charles! Pym and such carlesTo the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor supTill you're—(Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.
Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knellServe Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!England, good cheer! Rupert is near!Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here,(Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?
Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarlsTo the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!Hold by the right, you double your might;So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight.(Chorus) March we along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!