Victorian Songs - novelonlinefull.com
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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 sh.o.r.e, 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 gra.s.s 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 b.u.t.terflies 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 h.o.a.rds 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.
