Victorian Songs: Lyrics of the Affections and Nature
Chapter 6
She entered with her weary smile, Just as of old; She looked around a little while, And shivered at the cold. Her passing touch was death to all, Her passing look a blight; She made the white rose-petals fall, And turned the red rose white.
Her pale robe, clinging to the grass, Seemed like a snake That bit the grass and ground, alas! And a sad trail did make.
She went up slowly to the gate; And there, just as of yore, She turned back at the last to wait, And say farewell once more.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
1825-1864.
_THE LOST CHORD._
Seated one day at the Organ, I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wandered idly Over the noisy keys.
I do not know what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming then; But I struck one chord of music, Like the sound of a great Amen.
It flooded the crimson twilight Like the close of an Angel's Psalm, And it lay on my fevered spirit With a touch of infinite calm.
It quieted pain and sorrow, Like love overcoming strife; It seemed the harmonious echo From our discordant Life.
It linked all perplexed meanings Into one perfect peace, And trembled away into silence As if it were loth to cease.
I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one lost chord divine, Which came from the soul of the Organ, And entered into mine.
It may be that Death's bright angel Will speak in that chord again,-- It may be that only in Heaven I shall hear that grand Amen.
_SENT TO HEAVEN._
I had a Message to send her, To her whom my soul loved best; But I had my task to finish, And she was gone home to rest.
To rest in the far bright heaven; Oh, so far away from here, It was vain to speak to my darling, For I knew she could not hear!
I had a message to send her, So tender, and true, and sweet, I longed for an Angel to bear it, And lay it down at her feet.
I placed it, one summer evening, On a Cloudlet's fleecy breast; But it faded in golden splendour, And died in the crimson west.
I gave it the Lark next morning, And I watched it soar and soar; But its pinions grew faint and weary, And it fluttered to earth once more.
To the heart of a Rose I told it; And the perfume, sweet and rare, Growing faint on the blue bright ether, Was lost in the balmy air.
I laid it upon a Censer, And I saw the incense rise; But its clouds of rolling silver Could not reach the far blue skies.
I cried, in my passionate longing:-- "Has the earth no Angel-friend Who will carry my love the message That my heart desires to send?"
Then I heard a strain of music, So mighty, so pure, so clear, That my very sorrow was silent, And my heart stood still to hear.
And I felt, in my soul's deep yearning, At last the sure answer stir:-- "The music will go up to Heaven, And carry my thought to her."
It rose in harmonious rushing Of mingled voices and strings, And I tenderly laid my message On the Music's outspread wings.
I heard it float farther and farther, In sound more perfect than speech; Farther than sight can follow, Farther than soul can reach.
And I know that at last my message Has passed through the golden gate: So my heart is no longer restless, And I am content to wait.
[Decoration]
B. W. PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL).
1787-1874.
_THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE._
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.
How many Summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine? Time, like the winged wind When 't bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind, To count the hours!
Some weight of thought, though loth, On thee he leaves; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves; Some fears,--a soft regret For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget;-- All else is flown!
Ah! with what thankless heart I mourn and sing! Look, where our children start, Like sudden Spring! With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and Time!
[Decoration]
_A PETITION TO TIME._
1831.
Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,--as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream! Humble voyagers are We, Husband, wife, and children three-- (One is lost,--an angel, fled To the azure overhead!)
Touch us gently, Time! We 've not proud nor soaring wings: _Our_ ambition, _our_ content Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are We, O'er Life's dim unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime:-- Touch us _gently_, gentle Time!
_A BACCHANALIAN SONG._
SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS.
Sing!--Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah, who is this lady fine? The VINE, boys, the VINE! The mother of mighty Wine. A roamer is she O'er wall and tree, And sometimes very good company.
Drink!--Who drinks To her who blusheth and never thinks? Ah, who is this maid of thine? The GRAPE, boys, the GRAPE! O, never let her escape Until she be turned to Wine! For better is she Than vine can be, And very, very good company!
Dream!--Who dreams Of the God that governs a thousand streams? Ah, who is this Spirit fine? 'T is WINE, boys, 't is WINE! God Bacchus, a friend of mine. O better is he Than grape or tree, And the best of all good company.
[Decoration]
_SHE WAS NOT FAIR NOR FULL OF GRACE._
She was not fair, nor full of grace, Nor crowned with thought or aught beside; No wealth had she, of mind or face, To win our love, or raise our pride: No lover's thought her cheek did touch; No poet's dream was 'round her thrown; And yet we miss her--ah, too much, Now--she hath flown!
We miss her when the morning calls, As one that mingled in our mirth; We miss her when the evening falls,-- A trifle wanted on the earth! Some fancy small or subtle thought Is checked ere to its blossom grown; Some chain is broken that we wrought, Now--she hath flown!
No solid good, nor hope defined, Is marred now she hath sunk in night; And yet the strong immortal Mind Is stopped in its triumphant flight! Stern friend, what power is in a tear, What strength in one poor thought alone, When all we know is--"She was here," And--"She hath flown!"
[Decoration]
_THE SEA-KING._
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.
Come sing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King, And the fame that now hangs o'er him, Who once did sweep o'er the vanquish'd deep, And drove the world before him! His deck was a throne, on the ocean lone, And the sea was his park of pleasure, Where he scattered in fear the human deer, And rested,--when he had leisure! Come,--shout and sing Of the great Sea-King, And ride in the track he rode in! He sits at the head Of the mighty dead, On the red right hand of Odin!
He sprang, from birth, like a God on earth, And soared on his victor pinions, And he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee, When they gaze on their blue dominions. His whole earth life was a conquering strife, And he lived till his beard grew hoary, And he died at last, by his blood-red mast, And now--he is lost in glory! So,--shout and sing, &c.
[Decoration]
_A SERENADE._
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.
Awake!--The starry midnight Hour Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight: In its own sweetness sleeps the flower; And the doves lie hushed in deep delight! Awake! Awake! Look forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!
Awake!--Soft dews will soon arise From daisied mead, and thorny brake; Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, And like the tender morning break! Awake! Awake! Dawn forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!
Awake!--Within the musk-rose bower I watch, pale flower of love, for thee; Ah, come, and shew the starry Hour What wealth of love thou hid'st from me! Awake! Awake! Shew all thy love, for Love's sweet sake!
Awake!--Ne'er heed, though listening Night Steal music from thy silver voice: Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright, And bid the world and me rejoice! Awake! Awake! She comes,--at last, for Love's sweet sake!
[Decoration]
_KING DEATH._
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.
King Death was a rare old fellow! He sate where no sun could shine; And he lifted his hand so yellow, And poured out his coal-black wine. Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!
There came to him many a Maiden, Whose eyes had forgot to shine; And Widows, with grief o'erladen, For a draught of his sleepy wine. Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!
The Scholar left all his learning; The Poet his fancied woes; And the Beauty her bloom returning, As the beads of the black wine rose. Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!
All came to the royal old fellow, Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, As he gave them his hand so yellow, And pledged them in Death's black wine. Hurrah!--Hurrah! Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!
[Decoration]
_SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL._
Sit down, sad soul, and count The moments flying: Come,--tell the sweet amount That 's lost by sighing! How many smiles?--a score? Then laugh, and count no more; For day is dying!
Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, And no more measure The flight of Time, nor weep The loss of leisure; But here, by this lone stream, Lie down with us, and dream Of starry treasure!
We dream: do thou the same: We love--for ever: We laugh; yet few we shame, The gentle, never. Stay, then, till Sorrow dies; _Then_--hope and happy skies Are thine for ever!
[Decoration]
_A DRINKING SONG._
Drink, and fill the night with mirth! Let us have a mighty measure, Till we quite forget the earth, And soar into the world of pleasure. Drink, and let a health go round, ('T is the drinker's noble duty,) To the eyes that shine and wound, To the mouths that bud in beauty!
Here 's to Helen! Why, ah! why Doth she fly from my pursuing? Here 's to Marian, cold and shy! May she warm before thy wooing! Here 's to Janet! I 've been e'er, Boy and man, her staunch defender, Always sworn that she was fair, Always _known_ that she was tender!
Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high! Let them with the champagne tremble, Like the loose wrack in the sky, When the four wild winds assemble! Here 's to all the love on earth, (Love, the young man's, wise man's treasure!) Drink, and fill your throats with mirth! Drink, and drown the world in pleasure!
[Decoration]
_PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL?_
Peace! what can tears avail? She lies all dumb and pale, And from her eye, The spirit of lovely life is fading, And she must die! Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding? Reply, reply!
Hath she not dwelt too long 'Midst pain, and grief, and wrong? Then, why not die? Why suffer again her doom of sorrow, And hopeless lie? Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow? Reply, reply!
Death! Take her to thine arms, In all her stainless charms, And with her fly To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness, The Angels lie! Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness? Reply,--reply!
[Decoration]
_THE SEA._
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.
The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.
I 'm on the Sea! I 'm on the Sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? _I_ shall ride and sleep.
I love (oh! _how_ I love) to ride On the fierce foaming bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the south-west blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull tame shore, But I loved the great Sea more and more, And backwards flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she _was_, and _is_ to me; For I was born on the open Sea!
The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the Ocean-child!
I 've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought, nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he come to me, Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea!
[Decoration]
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
1830-1895.
_SONG._
When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.
[Decoration]
_SONG._
O roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy branch for me Grown old before my time.
O violets for the grave of youth, And bay for those dead in their prime; Give me the withered leaves I chose Before in the old time.
[Decoration]
_SONG._
Two doves upon the selfsame branch, Two lilies on a single stem, Two butterflies upon one flower:-- O happy they who look on them.
Who look upon them hand in hand Flushed in the rosy summer light; Who look upon them hand in hand And never give a thought to night.
[Decoration]
_THREE SEASONS._
"A cup for hope!" she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold By her mouth's richer red.
"A cup for love!" how low, How soft the words; and all the while Her blush was rippling with a smile Like summer after snow.
"A cup for memory!" Cold cup that one must drain alone: While autumn winds are up and moan Across the barren sea.
Hope, memory, love: Hope for fair morn, and love for day, And memory for the evening gray And solitary dove.
[Decoration]
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
1828-1882.
_A LITTLE WHILE._
A little while a little love The hour yet bears for thee and me Who have not drawn the veil to see If still our heaven be lit above. Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone; And I have heard the night-wind cry And deemed its speech mine own.
A little while a little love The scattering autumn hoards for us Whose bower is not yet ruinous Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. Only across the shaken boughs We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, And deep in both our hearts they rouse One wail for thee and me.
A little while a little love May yet be ours who have not said The word it makes our eyes afraid To know that each is thinking of. Not yet the end: be our lips dumb In smiles a little season yet: I 'll tell thee, when the end is come, How we may best forget.
[Decoration]
_SUDDEN LIGHT._
I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,-- How long ago I may not know: But just when at that swallow's soar Your neck turned so, Some veil did fall,--I knew it all of yore.
Has this been thus before? And shall not thus time's eddying flight Still with our lives our loves restore In death's despite, And day and night yield one delight once more?
_THREE SHADOWS._
I looked and saw your eyes In the shadow of your hair, As a traveller sees the stream In the shadow of the wood; And I said, "My faint heart sighs, Ah me! to linger there, To drink deep and to dream In that sweet solitude."
I looked and saw your heart In the shadow of your eyes, As a seeker sees the gold In the shadow of the stream; And I said, "Ah, me! what art Should win the immortal prize, Whose want must make life cold And Heaven a hollow dream?"
I looked and saw your love In the shadow of your heart, As a diver sees the pearl In the shadow of the sea; And I murmured, not above My breath, but all apart,-- "Ah! you can love, true girl, And is your love for me?"
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[Decoration]
WILLIAM BELL SCOTT.
1812-1890.
_PARTING AND MEETING AGAIN._
Last time I parted from my Dear The linnet sang from the briar-bush, The throstle from the dell; The stream too carolled full and clear, It was the spring-time of the year, And both the linnet and the thrush I love them well Since last I parted from my Dear.
But when he came again to me The barley rustled high and low, Linnet and thrush were still; Yellowed the apple on the tree, 'T was autumn merry as it could be, What time the white ships come and go Under the hill; They brought him back again to me, Brought him safely o'er the sea.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
JOSEPH SKIPSEY.
1832
_A MERRY BEE._
A golden bee a-cometh O'er the mere, glassy mere, And a merry tale he hummeth In my ear.
How he seized and kist a blossom, From its tree, thorny tree, Plucked and placed in Annie's bosom, Hums the bee!
_THE SONGSTRESS._
Back flies my soul to other years, When thou that charming lay repeatest, When smiles were only chased by tears, Yet sweeter far than smiles the sweetest.
Thy music ends, and where are they? Those golden times by memory cherished? O, Syren, sing no more that lay, Or sing till I like them have perished!
[Decoration]
_THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE._
The Violet invited my kiss,-- I kissed it and called it my bride; "Was ever one slighted like this?" Sighed the Rose as it stood by my side.
My heart ever open to grief, To comfort the fair one I turned; "Of fickle ones thou art the chief!" Frowned the Violet, and pouted and mourned.
Then, to end all disputes, I entwined The love-stricken blossoms in one; But that instant their beauty declined, And I wept for the deed I had done!
[Decoration]
J. ASHBY STERRY.
_REGRETS._
I.
O for the look of those pure grey eyes-- Seeming to plead and speak-- The parted lips and the deep-drawn sighs, The blush on the kissen cheek!
II.
O for the tangle of soft brown hair, Lazily blown by the breeze; The fleeting hours unshadowed by care, Shaded by tremulous trees!
III.
O for the dream of those sunny days, With their bright unbroken spell, And the thrilling sweet untutored praise-- From the lips once loved so well!
IV.
O for the feeling of days agone, The simple faith and the truth, The spring of time and life's rosy dawn-- O for the love and the youth!
[Decoration]
_DAISY'S DIMPLES._
I.
Little dimples so sweet and soft, Love the cheek of my love: The mark of Cupid's dainty hand, Before he wore a glove.
II.
Laughing dimples of tender love Smile on my darling's cheek; Sweet hallowed spots where kisses lurk, And play at hide and seek.
III.
Fain would I hide my kisses there At morning's rosy light, To come and seek them back again In silver hush of night.
_A LOVER'S LULLABY._
I.
Mirror your sweet eyes in mine, love, See how they glitter and shine! Quick fly such moments divine, love, Link your lithe fingers in mine!
II.
Lay your soft cheek against mine, love, Pillow your head on my breast; While your brown locks I entwine, love, Pout your red lips when they 're prest!
III.
Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love; Sorrow and sighing resign: Life is too short to repine, love, Link your fair future in mine!
[Decoration]
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
1837.
_A MATCH._
If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or grey grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf.
If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound or single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune.
If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death, We 'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath; If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death.
If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy, We 'd play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons And tears of night and morrow And laughs of maid and boy; If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy.
If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May, We 'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We 'd hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain.
_RONDEL._
Kissing her hair I sat against her feet, Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; With her own tresses bound and found her fair, Kissing her hair.
Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; What pain could get between my face and hers? What new sweet thing would love not relish worse? Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, Kissing her hair?
[Decoration]
_SONG._
FROM "FELISE."
O lips that mine have grown into Like April's kissing May, O fervent eyelids letting through Those eyes the greenest of things blue, The bluest of things gray,
If you were I and I were you, How could I love you, say? How could the roseleaf love the rue, The day love nightfall and her dew, Though night may love the day?
[Decoration]
ALFRED TENNYSON.
1809-1892.
_THE BUGLE SONG._
FROM "THE PRINCESS."
The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.