Victorian Songs: Lyrics of the Affections and Nature
Chapter 4
"O heart, my heart!" she said and smiled, "There 's not a tree of the valley, Or a leaf I wis which the rain's soft kiss Freshens in yonder alley, Where the drops keep ever falling,--
"There 's not a foolish flower i' the grass, Or bird through the woodland calling, So glad again of the coming rain As I of these tears now falling,-- These happy tears down falling."
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
GEORGE DARLEY.
1795-1846.
_MAY DAY._
FROM "SYLVIA": _Act III. Scene ii_.
O may, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale.
When lasses and their lovers meet Beneath the early village-thorn, And to the sound of tabor sweet Bid welcome to the Maying-morn!
O May, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale.
When grey-beards and their gossips come With crutch in hand our sports to see, And both go tottering, tattling home, Topful of wine as well as glee!
O May, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale.
But Youth was aye the time for bliss, So taste it, Shepherds! while ye may: For who can tell that joy like this Will come another holiday?
O May, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale.
_I'VE BEEN ROAMING._
FROM "LILIAN OF THE VALE."
I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! Where the meadow dew is sweet, And like a queen I 'm coming With its pearls upon my feet.
I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! O'er red rose and lily fair, And like a sylph I 'm coming With their blossoms in my hair.
I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! Where the honeysuckle creeps, And like a bee I 'm coming With its kisses on my lips.
I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! Over hill and over plain, And like a bird I 'm coming To my bower back again!
_SYLVIA'S SONG._
The streams that wind amid the hills And lost in pleasure slowly roam, While their deep joy the valley fills,-- Even these will leave their mountain home; So may it, Love! with others be, But I will never wend from thee.
The leaf forsakes the parent spray, The blossom quits the stem as fast; The rose-enamour'd bird will stray And leave his eglantine at last: So may it, Love! with others be, But I will never wend from thee.
_SERENADE._
FROM "SYLVIA": _Act IV. Scene I_.
Romanzo sings:
Awake thee, my Lady-love! Wake thee, and rise! The sun through the bower peeps Into thine eyes!
Behold how the early lark Springs from the corn! Hark, hark how the flower-bird Winds her wee horn!
The swallow's glad shriek is heard All through the air! The stock-dove is murmuring Loud as she dare!
Apollo's winged bugleman Cannot contain, But peals his loud trumpet-call Once and again!
Then wake thee, my Lady-love, Bird of my bower! The sweetest and sleepiest Bird at this hour!
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
LORD DE TABLEY.
1835.
_A WINTER SKETCH._
When the snow begins to feather, And the woods begin to roar Clashing angry boughs together, As the breakers grind the shore Nature then a bankrupt goes, Full of wreck and full of woes.
When the swan for warmer forelands Leaves the sea-firth's icebound edge, When the gray geese from the morelands Cleave the clouds in noisy wedge, Woodlands stand in frozen chains, Hung with ropes of solid rains.
Shepherds creep to byre and haven, Sheep in drifts are nipped and numb; Some belated rook or raven Rocks upon a sign-post dumb; Mere-waves, solid as a clod, Roar with skaters, thunder-shod.
All the roofs and chimneys rumble; Roads are ridged with slush and sleet; Down the orchard apples tumble; Ploughboys stamp their frosty feet; Millers, jolted down the lanes, Hardly feel for cold their reins.
Snipes are calling from the trenches, Frozen half and half at flow; In the porches servant wenches Work with shovels at the snow; Rusty blackbirds, weak of wing, Clean forget they once could sing.
Dogs and boys fetch down the cattle, Deep in mire and powdered pale; Spinning-wheels commence to rattle; Landlords spice the smoking ale. Hail, white winter, lady fine, In a cup of elder wine!
[Decoration]
_THE SECOND MADRIGAL._
Woo thy lass while May is here; Winter vows are colder. Have thy kiss when lips are near; To-morrow you are older.
Think, if clear the throstle sing, A month his note will thicken; A throat of gold in a golden spring At the edge of the snow will sicken.
Take thy cup and take thy girl, While they come for asking; In thy heyday melt the pearl At the love-ray basking.
Ale is good for careless bards, Wine for wayworn sinners. They who hold the strongest cards Rise from life as winners.
[Decoration]
AUBREY DE VERE.
1788-1846.
_SONG._
I.
Softly, O midnight Hours! Move softly o'er the bowers Where lies in happy sleep a girl so fair! For ye have power, men say, Our hearts in sleep to sway, And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare. Round ivory neck and arm Enclasp a separate charm: Hang o'er her poised; but breathe nor sigh nor prayer: Silently ye may smile, But hold your breath the while, And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair!
II.
Bend down your glittering urns Ere yet the dawn returns, And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread; Upon the air rain balm; Bid all the woods be calm; Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed. That so the Maiden may With smiles your care repay When from her couch she lifts her golden head; Waking with earliest birds, Ere yet the misty herds Leave warm 'mid the grey grass their dusky bed.
[Decoration]
_SONG._
Seek not the tree of silkiest bark And balmiest bud, To carve her name--while yet 't is dark-- Upon the wood! The world is full of noble tasks And wreaths hard-won: Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands, Till day is done.
Sing not that violet-veined skin, That cheek's pale roses; The lily of that form wherein Her soul reposes! Forth to the fight, true man, true knight! The clash of arms Shall more prevail than whispered tale To win her charms.
The warrior for the True, the Right, Fights in Love's name: The love that lures thee from that fight Lures thee to shame. That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves The spirit free,-- That love, or none, is fit for one, Man-shaped like thee.
[Decoration]
_SONG._
I.
When I was young, I said to Sorrow, "Come, and I will play with thee:"-- He is near me now all day; And at night returns to say, "I will come again to-morrow, I will come and stay with thee."
II.
Through the woods we walk together; His soft footsteps rustle nigh me; To shield an unregarded head, He hath built a winter shed; And all night in rainy weather, I hear his gentle breathings by me.
[Decoration]
CHARLES DICKENS.
1812-1870.
_THE IVY GREEN._
Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim: And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, To his friend, the huge Oak tree! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past: For the stateliest building man can raise Is the Ivy's food at last. Creeping on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
[Decoration]
AUSTIN DOBSON.
1840.
_THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S._
A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN.
The ladies of St. James's Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them, With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon.
The ladies of St. James's Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at _Ombre_, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May dew Before the world is down.
The ladies of St. James's They are so fine and fair, You 'd think a box of essences Was broken in the air: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! The breath of heath and furze, When breezes blow at morning, Is scarce so fresh as hers.
The ladies of St. James's They 're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays forever, Their red it never dies: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her color comes and goes; It trembles to a lily, It wavers to a rose.
The ladies of St. James's, With "Mercy!" and with "Lud!" They season all their speeches (They come of noble blood): But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her shy and simple words Are sweet as, after rain-drops, The music of the birds.
The ladies of St. James's, They have their fits and freaks; They smile on you--for seconds, They frown on you--for weeks: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Come either storm or shine, From Shrovetide unto Shrovetide Is always true--and mine.
My Phyllida, my Phyllida! I care not though they heap The hearts of all St. James's, And give me all to keep; I care not whose the beauties Of all the world may be, For Phyllida--for Phyllida Is all the world to me!
[Decoration]
_THE MILKMAID._
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.
Across the grass I see her pass; She comes with tripping pace,-- A maid I know,--and March winds blow Her hair across her face;-- With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
The March winds blow. I watch her go: Her eye is brown and clear; Her cheek is brown and soft as down (To those who see it near!)-- With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
What has she not that they have got,-- The dames that walk in silk! If she undo her 'kerchief blue, Her neck is white as milk. With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
Let those who will be proud and chill! For me, from June to June, My Dolly's words are sweet as curds,-- Her laugh is like a tune;-- With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear! O tall Lent-lilies, flame! There 'll be a bride at Easter-tide, And Dolly is her name.
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
ALFRED DOMETT.
1811-1887.
_A GLEE FOR WINTER._
Hence, rude Winter! crabbed old fellow, Never merry, never mellow! Well-a-day! in rain and snow What will keep one's heart aglow? Groups of kinsmen, old and young, Oldest they old friends among! Groups of friends, so old and true, That they seem our kinsmen too! These all merry all together, Charm away chill Winter weather!
What will kill this dull old fellow? Ale that 's bright, and wine that 's mellow! Dear old songs for ever new; Some true love, and laughter too; Pleasant wit, and harmless fun, And a dance when day is done! Music--friends so true and tried-- Whispered love by warm fireside-- Mirth at all times all together-- Make sweet May of Winter weather!
[Decoration]
_A KISS._
SAPPHO TO PHAON.
I.
Sweet mouth! O let me take One draught from that delicious cup! The hot Sahara-thirst to slake That burns me up!
II.
Sweet breath!--all flowers that are, Within that darling frame must bloom; My heart revives so at the rare Divine perfume!
III.
--Nay, 't is a dear deceit, A drunkard's cup that mouth of thine; Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet, That fragrance fine!
IV.
I drank--the drink betrayed me Into a madder, fiercer fever; The scent of those love-blossoms made me More faint than ever!
V.
Yet though quick death it were That rich heart-vintage I must drain, And quaff that hidden garden's air, Again--again!
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
LADY DUFFERIN.
1807-1867.
_SONG._[A]
April 30, 1833.
I.
When another's voice thou hearest, With a sad and gentle tone, Let its sound but waken, dearest, Memory of _my_ love alone! When in stranger lands thou meetest Warm, true hearts, which welcome thee, Let each friendly look thou greetest Seem a message, Love, from _me_!
II.
When night's quiet sky is o'er thee, When the pale stars dimly burn, Dream that _one_ is watching for thee, Who but lives for thy return! Wheresoe'er thy steps are roving, Night or day, by land or sea, Think of her, whose life of loving Is but one long thought of thee!
[Decoration]
[Footnote A: These lines were written to the author's husband, then at sea, in 1833, and set to music by herself.]
_LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT._
I 'm sitting on the stile, Mary, Where we sat, side by side, That bright May morning long ago When first you were my bride. The corn was springing fresh and green, The lark sang loud and high, The red was on your lip, Mary, The love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, The corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, Your breath warm on my cheek, And I still keep list'ning for the words You never more may speak.
'T is but a step down yonder lane, The little Church stands near-- The Church where we were wed, Mary,-- I see the spire from here; But the graveyard lies between, Mary,-- My step might break your rest,-- Where you, my darling, lie asleep With your baby on your breast.
I 'm very lonely now, Mary,-- The poor make no new friends;-- But, oh! they love the better still The few our Father sends. And you were all I had, Mary, My blessing and my pride; There 's nothing left to care for now Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When trust in God had left my soul, And half my strength was gone. There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow. I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you can't hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break; When the hunger pain was gnawing there You hid it for my sake. I bless you for the pleasant word When your heart was sad and sore. Oh! I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!
I 'm bidding you a long farewell, My Mary--kind and true! But I 'll not forget you, darling, In the land I 'm going to. They say there 's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there; But I 'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair.
And when amid those grand old woods I sit and shut my eyes, My heart will travel back again To where my Mary lies; I 'll think I see the little stile Where we sat, side by side,-- And the springing corn and bright May morn, When first you were my bride.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
MICHAEL FIELD.
_WINDS TO-DAY ARE LARGE AND FREE._
Winds to-day are large and free, Winds to-day are westerly; From the land they seem to blow Whence the sap begins to flow And the dimpled light to spread, From the country of the dead.
Ah, it is a wild, sweet land Where the coming May is planned, Where such influences throb As our frosts can never rob Of their triumph, when they bound Through the tree and from the ground.
Great within me is my soul, Great to journey to its goal, To the country of the dead; For the cornel-tips are red, And a passion rich in strife Drives me toward the home of life.
Oh, to keep the spring with them Who have flushed the cornel-stem, Who imagine at its source All the year's delicious course, Then express by wind and light Something of their rapture's height!
[Decoration]
_LET US WREATHE THE MIGHTY CUP._
Let us wreathe the mighty cup, Then with song we 'll lift it up, And, before we drain the glow Of the juice that foams below Flowers and cool leaves round the brim, Let us swell the praise of him Who is tyrant of the heart, Cupid with his flaming dart!
Pride before his face is bowed, Strength and heedless beauty cowed; Underneath his fatal wings Bend discrowned the heads of kings; Maidens blanch beneath his eye And its laughing mastery; Through each land his arrows sound, By his fetters all are bound.
_WHERE WINDS ABOUND._
Where winds abound, And fields are hilly, Shy daffadilly Looks down on the ground.
Rose cones of larch Are just beginning; Though oaks are spinning No oak-leaves in March.
Spring 's at the core, The boughs are sappy: Good to be happy So long, long before!
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
NORMAN GALE.
1862.
_A SONG._
First the fine, faint, dreamy motion Of the tender blood Circling in the veins of children-- This is Life, the bud.
Next the fresh, advancing beauty Growing from the gloom, Waking eyes and fuller bosom-- This is Life, the bloom.
Then the pain that follows after, Grievous to be borne, Pricking, steeped in subtle poison-- This is Love, the thorn.
_SONG._
Wait but a little while-- The bird will bring A heart in tune for melodies Unto the spring, Till he who 's in the cedar there Is moved to trill a song so rare, And pipe her fair.
Wait but a little while-- The bud will break; The inner rose will ope and glow For summer's sake; Fond bees will lodge within her breast Till she herself is plucked and prest Where I would rest.
Wait but a little while-- The maid will grow Gracious with lips and hands to thee, With breast of snow. To-day Love 's mute, but time hath sown A soul in her to match thine own, Though yet ungrown.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
EDMUND GOSSE.
1849.
_SONG FOR THE LUTE._
I bring a garland for your head Of blossoms fresh and fair; My own hands wound their white and red To ring about your hair: Here is a lily, here a rose, A warm narcissus that scarce blows, And fairer blossoms no man knows.
So crowned and chapleted with flowers, I pray you be not proud; For after brief and summer hours Comes autumn with a shroud;-- Though fragrant as a flower you lie, You and your garland, bye and bye, Will fade and wither up and die.
[Decoration]
THOMAS HOOD.
1798-1845.
_BALLAD._
I.
It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses,-- We plucked them as we passed;
II.
That churlish season never frowned On early lovers yet:-- Oh, no--the world was newly crowned With flowers when first we met!
III.
'T was twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast; It was the time of roses,-- We plucked them as we passed.--
[Decoration]
_SONG._
O Lady, leave thy silken thread And flowery tapestrie: There 's living roses on the bush, And blossoms on the tree; Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand Some random bud will meet; Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find The daisy at thy feet.
'T is like the birthday of the world, When earth was born in bloom; The light is made of many dyes, The air is all perfume; There 's crimson buds, and white and blue-- The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers.
There 's fairy tulips in the east, The garden of the sun; The very streams reflect the hues, And blossom as they run: While Morn opes like a crimson rose, Still wet with pearly showers; Then, Lady, leave the silken thread Thou twinest into flowers!
[Decoration]
_I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER._
I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The vi'lets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,-- The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I 'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy.
_BALLAD._
She 's up and gone, the graceless Girl! And robbed my failing years; My blood before was thin and cold But now 't is turned to tears;-- My shadow falls upon my grave, So near the brink I stand, She might have stayed a little yet, And led me by the hand!
Ay, call her on the barren moor, And call her on the hill, 'T is nothing but the heron's cry, And plover's answer shrill; My child is flown on wilder wings, Than they have ever spread, And I may even walk a waste That widened when she fled.
Full many a thankless child has been, But never one like mine; Her meat was served on plates of gold, Her drink was rosy wine; But now she 'll share the robin's food, And sup the common rill, Before her feet will turn again To meet her father's will!
[Decoration]
_SONG._
I.
The stars are with the voyager Wherever he may sail; The moon is constant to her time; The sun will never fail; But follow, follow round the world, The green earth and the sea; So love is with the lover's heart, Wherever he may be.
II.
Wherever he may be, the stars Must daily lose their light; The moon will veil her in the shade; The sun will set at night. The sun may set, but constant love Will shine when he 's away; So that dull night is never night, And day is brighter day.
[Decoration]
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON).
1809-1885.
_THE BROOKSIDE._