Victorian Songs: Lyrics of the Affections and Nature
Chapter 3
In youth, we plucked full many a flower that died, Dropped on the pathway, as we danced along; And now, we cherish each poor leaflet dried In pages which to that dear past belong. With sad crushed hearts they yet retain Some semblance of their glories fled; Like us, whose lineaments remain, When all the fires of life are dead. Oh! let me dream, etc.
_LOVE, THE PILGRIM._
SUGGESTED BY A SKETCH BY E. BURNE-JONES.
Every day a Pilgrim, blindfold, When the night and morning meet, Entereth the slumbering city, Stealeth down the silent street; Lingereth round some battered doorway, Leaves unblest some portal grand, And the walls, where sleep the children, Toucheth, with his warm young hand. Love is passing! Love is passing!-- Passing while ye lie asleep: In your blessed dreams, O children, Give him all your hearts to keep!
Blindfold is this Pilgrim, Maiden. Though to-day he touched thy door, He may pass it by to-morrow-- --Pass it--to return no more. Let us then with prayers entreat him,-- Youth! her heart, whose coldness grieves, May one morn by Love be softened; Prize the treasure that he leaves. Love is passing! Love is passing! All, with hearts to hope and pray, Bid this pilgrim touch the lintels Of your doorways every day.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
1824-1889.
_LOVELY MARY DONNELLY._
Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best! If fifty girls were round you, I 'd hardly see the rest; Be what it may the time o' day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks o' Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.
Her eyes like mountain water that 's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are! they give me many a shock; Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a show'r, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its pow'r.
Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup, Her hair 's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; It 's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.
The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before, No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt o' love, and O but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.
When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete The music nearly kill'd itself to listen to her feet; The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But bless'd his luck to not be deaf when once her voice she raised.
And evermore I 'm whistling or lilting what you sung, Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; But you 've as many sweethearts as you 'd count on both your hands, And for myself there 's not a thumb or little finger stands.
'T is you 're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I 'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I 'd own it was but right.
O might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! O might we live together in a cottage mean and small, With sods o' grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!
O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty 's my distress. It 's far too beauteous to be mine, but I 'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!
[Decoration]
_SONG._
O spirit of the Summertime! Bring back the roses to the dells; The swallow from her distant clime, The honey-bee from drowsy cells.
Bring back the friendship of the sun; The gilded evenings, calm and late, When merry children homeward run, And peeping stars bid lovers wait.
Bring back the singing; and the scent Of meadowlands at dewy prime;-- Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summertime!
_SERENADE._
Oh, hearing sleep, and sleeping hear, The while we dare to call thee dear, So may thy dreams be good, altho' The loving power thou dost not know. As music parts the silence,--lo! Through heaven the stars begin to peep, To comfort us that darkling pine Because those fairer lights of thine Have set into the Sea of Sleep. Yet closed still thine eyelids keep; And may our voices through the sphere Of Dreamland all as softly rise As through these shadowy rural dells, Where bashful Echo somewhere dwells, And touch thy spirit to as soft replies. May peace from gentle guardian skies, Till watches of the dark are worn, Surround thy bed, and joyous morn Makes all the chamber rosy bright! Good-night!--From far-off fields is borne The drowsy Echo's faint 'Good-night,'-- Good-night! Good-night!
[Decoration]
_ACROSS THE SEA._
I walked in the lonesome evening, And who so sad as I, When I saw the young men and maidens Merrily passing by. To thee, my Love, to thee-- So fain would I come to thee! While the ripples fold upon sands of gold, And I look across the sea.
I stretch out my hands; who will clasp them? I call,--thou repliest no word. Oh, why should heart-longing be weaker Than the waving wings of a bird! To thee, my Love, to thee-- So fain would I come to thee! For the tide 's at rest from east to west, And I look across the sea.
There 's joy in the hopeful morning, There 's peace in the parting day, There 's sorrow with every lover Whose true love is far away. To thee, my Love, to thee-- So fain would I come to thee! And the water 's bright in a still moonlight, As I look across the sea.
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[Decoration]
SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
1832.
_SERENADE._
Lute! breathe thy lowest in my Lady's ear, Sing while she sleeps, "Ah! belle dame, aimez-vous?" Till, dreaming still, she dream that I am here, And wake to find it, as my love is, true; Then, when she listens in her warm white nest, Say in slow music,--softer, tenderer yet, That lute-strings quiver when their tone 's at rest, And my heart trembles when my lips are set.
Stars! if my sweet love still a-dreaming lies, Shine through the roses for a lover's sake And send your silver to her lidded eyes, Kissing them very gently till she wake; Then while she wonders at the lay and light, Tell her, though morning endeth star and song, That ye live still, when no star glitters bright, And my love lasteth, though it finds no tongue.
[Decoration]
_A LOVE SONG OF HENRI QUATRE._
Come, rosy Day! Come quick--I pray-- I am so glad when I thee see! Because my Fair, Who is so dear, Is rosy-red and white like thee.
She lives, I think, On heavenly drink Dawn-dew, which Hebe pours for her; Else--when I sip At her soft lip How smells it of ambrosia?
She is so fair None can compare; And, oh, her slender waist divine! Her sparkling eyes Set in the skies The morning stars would far outshine!
Only to hear Her voice so clear The village gathers in the street; And Tityrus, Grown one of us, Leaves piping on his flute so sweet.
The Graces three, Where'er she be, Call all the Loves to flutter nigh; And what she 'll say,-- Speak when she may,-- Is full of sense and majesty!
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[Decoration]
THOMAS ASHE.
1836-1889.
_NO AND YES._
If I could choose my paradise, And please myself with choice of bliss, Then I would have your soft blue eyes And rosy little mouth to kiss! Your lips, as smooth and tender, child, As rose-leaves in a coppice wild.
If fate bade choose some sweet unrest, To weave my troubled life a snare, Then I would say "her maiden breast And golden ripple of her hair;" And weep amid those tresses, child, Contented to be thus beguiled.
_AT ALTENAHR._
1872.
_Meet we no angels, Pansie?_
Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, In white, to find her lover; The grass grew proud beneath her feet, The green elm-leaves above her:-- Meet we no angels, Pansie?
She said, "We meet no angels now;" And soft lights streamed upon her; And with white hand she touched a bough; She did it that great honour:-- What! meet no angels, Pansie?
O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes Down-dropped brown eyes so tender! Then what said I?--Gallant replies Seem flattery, and offend her:-- But,--meet no angels, Pansie?
_MARIT._
1869-70.
_C'est un songe que d'y penser._
My love, on a fair May morning, Would weave a garland of May: The dew hung frore, as her foot tripped o'er The grass at dawn of the day; On leaf and stalk, in each green wood-walk, Till the sun should charm it away.
Green as a leaf her kirtle, Her bodice red as a rose: Her white bare feet went softly and sweet By roots where the violet grows; Where speedwells azure as heaven, Their sleepy eyes half close.
O'er arms as fair as the lilies No sleeve my love drew on: She found a bower of the wildrose flower, And for her breast culled one: And I laugh and know her breasts will grow Or ever a year be gone.
O sweet dream, wrought of a dear fore-thought, Of a golden time to fall! She seemed to sing, in her wandering, Till doves in the elm-tops tall Grew mute to hear; as her song rang clear How love is the lord of all.
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ALFRED AUSTIN.
1835.
_A NIGHT IN JUNE._
Lady! in this night of June, Fair like thee and holy, Art thou gazing at the moon That is rising slowly? I am gazing on her now: Something tells me, so art thou.
Night hath been when thou and I Side by side were sitting, Watching o'er the moonlit sky Fleecy cloudlets flitting. Close our hands were linked then; When will they be linked again?
What to me the starlight still, Or the moonbeams' splendour, If I do not feel the thrill Of thy fingers slender? Summer nights in vain are clear, If thy footstep be not near.
Roses slumbering in their sheaths O'er my threshold clamber, And the honeysuckle wreathes Its translucent amber Round the gables of my home: How is it thou dost not come?
If thou camest, rose on rose From its sleep would waken; From each flower and leaf that blows Spices would be shaken; Floating down from star and tree, Dreamy perfumes welcome thee.
I would lead thee where the leaves In the moon-rays glisten; And, where shadows fall in sheaves, We would lean and listen For the song of that sweet bird That in April nights is heard.
And when weary lids would close, And thy head was drooping, Then, like dew that steeps the rose, O'er thy languor stooping, I would, till I woke a sigh, Kiss thy sweet lips silently.
I would give thee all I own, All thou hast would borrow, I from thee would keep alone Fear and doubt and sorrow. All of tender that is mine Should most tenderly be thine.
Moonlight! into other skies, I beseech thee wander. Cruel thus to mock mine eyes, Idle, thus to squander Love's own light on this dark spot;-- For my lady cometh not!
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.
1803-1849.
_DREAM-PEDLARY._
I.
If there were dreams to sell, What would you buy? Some cost a passing bell; Some a light sigh, That shakes from Life's fresh crown Only a rose-leaf down. If there were dreams to sell, Merry and sad to tell, And the crier rung the bell, What would you buy?
II.
A cottage lone and still, With bowers nigh, Shadowy, my woes to still, Until I die. Such pearl from Life's fresh crown Fain would I shake me down. Were dreams to have at will, This would best heal my ill, This would I buy.
III.
But there were dreams to sell Ill didst thou buy; Life is a dream, they tell, Waking, to die. Dreaming a dream to prize, Is wishing ghosts to rise; And, if I had the spell To call the buried well, Which one would I?
IV.
If there are ghosts to raise, What shall I call, Out of hell's murky haze, Heaven's blue pall? Raise my loved long-lost boy To lead me to his joy.-- There are no ghosts to raise; Out of death lead no ways; Vain is the call.
V.
Know'st thou not ghosts to sue No love thou hast. Else lie, as I will do, And breathe thy last. So out of Life's fresh crown Fall like a rose-leaf down. Thus are the ghosts to woo; Thus are all dreams made true, Ever to last!
_SONG FROM THE SHIP._
FROM "DEATH'S JEST-BOOK."
To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er; The wanton water leaps in sport, And rattles down the pebbly shore; The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort, And unseen Mermaids' pearly song Comes bubbling up, the weeds among. Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar: To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er.
To sea, to sea! Our wide-winged bark Shall billowy cleave its sunny way, And with its shadow, fleet and dark, Break the caved Tritons' azure day, Like mighty eagle soaring light O'er antelopes on Alpine height. The anchor heaves, the ship swings free, The sails swell full. To sea, to sea!
_SONG._
My goblet's golden lips are dry, And, as the rose doth pine For dew, so doth for wine My goblet's cup; Rain, O! rain, or it will die; Rain, fill it up!
Arise, and get thee wings to-night, AEtna! and let run o'er Thy wines, a hill no more, But darkly frown A cloud, where eagles dare not soar, Dropping rain down.
_SONG._
FROM "THE SECOND BROTHER."
Strew not earth with empty stars, Strew it not with roses, Nor feathers from the crest of Mars, Nor summer's idle posies. 'T is not the primrose-sandalled moon, Nor cold and silent morn, Nor he that climbs the dusty noon, Nor mower war with scythe that drops, Stuck with helmed and turbaned tops Of enemies new shorn. Ye cups, ye lyres, ye trumpets know, Pour your music, let it flow, 'T is Bacchus' son who walks below.
_SONG, BY TWO VOICES._
FROM "THE BRIDES' TRAGEDY."
FIRST VOICE.
Who is the baby, that doth lie Beneath the silken canopy Of thy blue eye?
SECOND.
It is young Sorrow, laid asleep In the crystal deep.
BOTH.
Let us sing his lullaby, Heigho! a sob and a sigh.
FIRST VOICE.
What sound is that, so soft, so clear, Harmonious as a bubbled tear Bursting, we hear?
SECOND.
It is young Sorrow, slumber breaking, Suddenly awaking.
BOTH.
Let us sing his lullaby, Heigho! a sob and a sigh.
[Decoration]
_SONG._
FROM "TORRISMOND."
How many times do I love thee, dear? Tell me how many thoughts there be In the atmosphere Of a new-fall'n year, Whose white and sable hours appear The latest flake of Eternity:-- So many times do I love thee, dear.
How many times do I love again? Tell me how many beads there are In a silver chain Of evening rain, Unravelled from the tumbling main, And threading the eye of a yellow star:-- So many times do I love again.
[Decoration]
WILLIAM COX BENNETT.
1820
_CRADLE SONG._
Sleep! the bird is in its nest; Sleep! the bee is hushed in rest; Sleep! rocked on thy mother's breast! Lullaby! To thy mother's fond heart pressed, Lullaby!
Sleep! the waning daylight dies; Sleep! the stars dream in the skies; Daisies long have closed their eyes; Lullaby! Calm, how calm on all things lies! Lullaby!
Sleep then, sleep! my heart's delight! Sleep! and through the darksome night Round thy bed God's angels bright Lullaby! Guard thee till I come with light! Lullaby!
[Decoration]
_MY ROSES BLOSSOM THE WHOLE YEAR ROUND._
My roses blossom the whole year round; For, O they grow on enchanted ground; Divine is the earth Where they spring to birth; On dimpling cheeks with love and mirth, They 're found They 're ever found.
My lilies no change of seasons heed; Nor shelter from storms or frosts they need; For, O they grow On a neck of snow, Nor all the wintry blasts that blow They heed, They ever heed.
_CRADLE SONG._
Lullaby! O lullaby! Baby, hush that little cry! Light is dying, Bats are flying, Bees to-day with work have done; So, till comes the morrow's sun, Let sleep kiss those bright eyes dry! Lullaby! O lullaby!
Lullaby! O lullaby! Hushed are all things far and nigh; Flowers are closing, Birds reposing, All sweet things with life have done; Sweet, till dawns the morning sun, Sleep then kiss those blue eyes dry! Lullaby! O lullaby!
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F. W. BOURDILLON.
1852.
_LOVE'S MEINIE._
There is no summer ere the swallows come, Nor Love appears, Till Hope, Love's light-winged herald, lifts the gloom Of years.
There is no summer left when swallows fly, And Love at last, When hopes which filled its heaven droop and die, Is past.
_THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES._
The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done.
[Decoration]
_A LOST VOICE._
A thousand voices fill my ears All day until the light grows pale; But silence falls when night-time nears, And where art thou, sweet nightingale?
Was that thine echo, faint and far? Nay, all is hushed as heaven above; In earth no voice, in heaven no star, And in my heart no dream of love.
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[Decoration]
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
_SERENADE._
Sleep sweet, beloved one, sleep sweet! Without here night is growing, The dead leaf falls, the dark boughs meet, And a chill wind is blowing. Strange shapes are stirring in the night, To the deep breezes wailing, And slow, with wistful gleams of light, The storm-tost moon is sailing.
Sleep sweet, beloved one, sleep sweet! Fold thy white hands, my blossom! Thy warm limbs in thy lily sheet, Thy hands upon thy bosom. Though evil thoughts may walk the dark, Not one shall near thy chamber; But shapes divine shall pause to mark, Singing to lutes of amber.
Sleep sweet, beloved one, sleep sweet! Though, on thy bosom creeping, Strange hands are laid, to feel the beat Of thy soft heart in sleeping. The brother angels, Sleep and Death, Stop by thy couch and eye thee; And Sleep stoops down to drink thy breath, While Death goes softly by thee!
[Decoration]
_SONG._
FROM "LOVE IN WINTER."
"O Love is like the roses, And every rose shall fall, For sure as summer closes They perish one and all. Then love, while leaves are on the tree, And birds sing in the bowers: When winter comes, too late 't will be To pluck the happy flowers."
"O Love is like the roses, Love comes, and Love must flee! Before the summer closes Love's rapture and Love's glee!"
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MORTIMER COLLINS.
1827-1876.
_TO F. C._
20th February 1875.
Fast falls the snow, O lady mine, Sprinkling the lawn with crystals fine, But by the gods we won't repine While we 're together, We 'll chat and rhyme and kiss and dine, Defying weather.
So stir the fire and pour the wine, And let those sea-green eyes divine Pour their love-madness into mine: I don't care whether 'T is snow or sun or rain or shine If we 're together.
_A GAME OF CHESS._
Terrace and lawn are white with frost, Whose fretwork flowers upon the panes-- A mocking dream of summer, lost 'Mid winter's icy chains.
White-hot, indoors, the great logs gleam, Veiled by a flickering flame of blue: I see my love as in a dream-- Her eyes are azure, too.
She puts her hair behind her ears (Each little ear so like a shell), Touches her ivory Queen, and fears She is not playing well.
For me, I think of nothing less: I think how those pure pearls become her-- And which is sweetest, winter chess Or garden strolls in summer.
O linger, frost, upon the pane! O faint blue flame, still softly rise! O, dear one, thus with me remain, That I may watch thine eyes!
[Decoration]
_MULTUM IN PARVO._
A little shadow makes the sunrise sad, A little trouble checks the race of joy, A little agony may drive men mad, A little madness may the soul destroy: Such is the world's annoy.
Ay, and the rose is but a little flower Which the red Queen of all the garden is: And Love, which lasteth but a little hour, A moment's rapture and a moment's kiss, Is what no man would miss.
_VIOLETS AT HOME._
I.
O happy buds of violet! I give thee to my sweet, and she Puts them where something sweeter yet Must always be.
II.
White violets find whiter rest: For fairest flowers how fair a fate! For me remain, O fragrant breast! Inviolate.
_MY THRUSH._
All through the sultry hours of June, From morning blithe to golden noon, And till the star of evening climbs The gray-blue East, a world too soon, There sings a Thrush amid the limes.
God's poet, hid in foliage green, Sings endless songs, himself unseen; Right seldom come his silent times. Linger, ye summer hours serene! Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes.
. . . . . . .
May I not dream God sends thee there, Thou mellow angel of the air, Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes With music's soul, all praise and prayer? Is that thy lesson in the limes?
Closer to God art thou than I: His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly Through silent aether's sunnier climes. Ah, never may thy music die! Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes!
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DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.
1826-1887.
_TOO LATE._
_"Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu."_
Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do;-- Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
O to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few: Do you know the truth now up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?
I never was worthy of you, Douglas; Not half worthy the like of you: Now all men beside seem to me like shadows-- I love _you_, Douglas, tender and true.
Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
[Decoration]
_A SILLY SONG._
"O heart, my heart!" she said, and heard His mate the blackbird calling, While through the sheen of the garden green May rain was softly falling,-- Aye softly, softly falling.
The buttercups across the field Made sunshine rifts of splendour: The round snow-bud of the thorn in the wood Peeped through its leafage tender, As the rain came softly falling.