Norman Harold Hepple.

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Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

W. WORDSWORTH



57. The Reverie of Poor Susan

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years
Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;
And a single small Cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!

W. WORDSWORTH
60



THOMAS CAMPBELL



58. Ye Mariners of England

Ye Mariners of England

That guard our native seas !

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe:

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long

And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell

Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long

And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak

She quells the floods below

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow;

When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

61



THOMAS CAMPBELL

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart

And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors !

Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.



T. CAMPBELL



59. To the Evening Star

Star that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary labourer free !
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou

That send'st it from above,
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow

Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,
Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard

And songs when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd

Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse:
Their remembrancer in Heaven

Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven

By absence from the heart.

T. CAMPBELL



62



THOMAS MOORE



60. The Light of Other Days

Oft, in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me :
The smiles, the tears
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken ;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm'd and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken !
Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends, so linked together,
I've seen around me fall

Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

T. MOORE



THOMAS MOORE and ALLAN CUNNINGHAM



61. The Last Rose of Summer

'Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,

To give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle

The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie wither'd

And fond ones are flown,
Oh ! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone!

T. MOORE



62. A Sea Song

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast
And fills the white and rustling sail

And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While like the eagle free
Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

6 4



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM and B. W. PROCTER

O for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze

And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free
The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;
But hark the music, mariners!

The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashes free
While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

A. CUNNINGHAM



63. A Song of the Sea

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? / shall ride and sleep.

I love O ! 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.

H. E 65



B. W. PROCTER and LORD BYRON

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 wide unbounded Sea!

B. W. PROCTER

64. A Song

There be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like Thee;
And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulPd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chains o'er the deep,

Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant's asleep:

So the spirit bows before thee

To listen and adore thee;

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

LORD BYRON

66



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

65. Hymn of Pan

From the forests and highlands

We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,

Where loud waves are dumb,

Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes,

The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,

The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing,

And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing

The light of the dying day,

Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,

And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,

And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars,

I sang of the daedal Earth,
And of Heaven, and the giant wars,
And Love, and Death, and Birth
And then I changed my pipings,
Singing how down the vale of Menalus

I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed :
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!

It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed :
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood,
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

P. B. SHELLS
E2 67



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY



66. Song



Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,

Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;

And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone,

Love itself shall slumber on.

P. B. SHELLEY



67. To Night

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave,

Spirit of Night !
Out of the misty eastern cave
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear,

Swift be thy flight !

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,

Star-inwrought !

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;
Kiss her until she be wearied out;
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand

Come, long-sought !

When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sighed for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
And the weary Day turned to his rest,
Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sighed for thee.

68



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

Thy brother Death came, and cried,

"Wouldst thou me?"
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur'd like a noontide bee,
"Shall I nestle near thy side?
Wouldst thou me?" And I replied,

"No, 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 boon
I ask of thee, belovdd Night
Swift be thine approaching flight,

Come soon, soon!

P. B. SHELLEY



68. Hymn to the Spirit of Nature from Prome
theus Unbound

Life of life ! thy lips enkindle

With their love the breath between them;
And thy smiles, before they dwindle,

Make the cold air fire; then screen them
In those locks, where whoso gazes
Faints, entangled in their mazes.

Child of Light ! thy limbs are burning

Through the veil which seems to hide them,

As the radiant lines of morning

Through thin clouds, ere they divide them;

And this atmosphere divinest

Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest.

Fair are others: none beholds Thee;

But thy voice sounds low and tender
Like the fairest, for it folds thee

From the sight, that liquid splendour;
And all feel, yet see thee never,
As I feel now, lost for ever !



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

Lamp of Earth ! where'er thou movest,
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness,

And the souls of whom thou lovest
Walk upon the winds with lightness,

Till they fail, as I am failing,

Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing!

P. B. SHELLEY



69. Invocation

Rarely, rarely, comest thou,

Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now

Many a day and night ?
Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like me

Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free

Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false ! thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,
Thou with sorrow art dismay'd;

Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Let me set my mournful ditty

To a merry measure;
Thou wilt never come for pity,

Thou wilt come for pleasure;
Pity then will cut away
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

70



P. B. SHELLEY and E. A. POE

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight !
The fresh Earth in new leaves drest

And the starry night;
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow and all the forms

Of the radiant frost;
I love waves, and winds, and storms

Everything almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,

And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good;

Between thee and me
What difference? but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love though he has wings,

And like light can flee;
But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee
Thou art love and life! O come!
Make once more my heart thy home!

P. B. SHELLEY



70. The Bells

1
Hear the sledges with the bells

Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;

71



EDGAR ALLAN POE

Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically swells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.



Hear the mellow wedding-bells

Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells !
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight !
From the molten-golden notes,

And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

On the moon !

Oh, from out the sounding cells
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future ! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells.

3
Hear the loud alarum bells

Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright !
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,

72



EDGAR ALLAN POE

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire.
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavour,
Now, now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh the bells, bells, bells,
What a tale their terror tells

Of despair !

How they clang, and clash, and roar !
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells

Of the bells
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!



Hear the tolling of the bells

Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels !
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone !

For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.

73



EDGAR ALLAN POE

And the people ah, the people
They that dwell up in the steeple,

All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone,
They are neither man nor woman
They are neither brute nor human
They are Ghouls;

And their king it is who tolls;

And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls

A paean from the bells;
And his merry bosom swells

With the paean of the bells;
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the paean of the bells

Of the bells;

Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells
Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells
In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells
Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.



E. A. POE



74



ARTHUR H. CLOUGH and CHARLES KINGSLEY



71. Green Fields of England

Green fields of England ! wheresoe'er
Across this watery waste we fare,
Your image at our hearts we bear,
Green fields of England, everywhere.

Sweet eyes in England, I must flee
Past where the waves' last confines be,
Ere your loved smile I cease to see,
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me.

Dear home in England, safe and fast
If but in thee my lot lie cast,
The past shall seem a nothing past
To thee, dear home, if won at last;
Dear home in England, won at last.

A. H. CLOUGH



72. A Farewell

My fairest child, I have no song to give you;

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and grey;
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you
For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
Do noble things not dream them, all day long:
And so make life, death, and that vast for-ever
One grand, sweet song.

C. KINGSLEY



73. The Sands of Dee

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee " ;
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,

And all alone went she.

75



C. KINGSLEY and H. W. LONGFELLOW

The western tide crept up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:

And never home came she.

"Oh! is it weed or fish or floating hair

A tress of golden hair,

A drowned maiden's hair

Above the nets at sea?"
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes of Dee.

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee.

C. KINGSLEY

74. The Rainy Day

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

H. W. LONGFELLOW

7 6



ROBERT BROWNING



75. Home-Thoughts, from Abroad

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England now !

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows !

Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dew-drops at the bent spray's edge

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture !

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

The buttercups, the little children's dower

Far brighter than this gaudy melon -flower!

R. BROWNING



76. Boot and Saddle

A Cavalier Song

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away !
Rescue my Castle, before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery grey;
(Chor.) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;
Many's the friend there will listen and pray
"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay
(Chor.) l Boot y saddle , to horse, and awayT"



77



ROBERT BROWNING and LORD TENNYSON

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array:
Who laughs, "Good fellows, ere this, by my fay,
(Cbor.) Boot) saddle, to horse, and away!"

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
Laughs, when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!
I've better counsellors; what counsel they?"
(Chor.) "Boot) saddle, to horse, and away!"

R. BROWNING



77. Pippa's Song from Pippa Passes

The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:
God's in his heaven
All's right with the world !

R. BROWNING



78. Three Songs from The Princess

(1) Slumber Song

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

78



LORD TENNYSON

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

LORD TENNYSON



(2) The Days that are no more

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

LORD TENNYSON



79



LORD TENNYSON

( 3) Blow, Bugle, Blow

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.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

LORD TENNYSON



79. A Spirit Haunts the Year's Last Hours



A spirit haunts the year's last hours
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers:

To himself he talks;
For at eventide, listening earnestly,
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh

In the walks;

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks
Of the mouldering flowers:

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

80



LORD TENNYSON

II

The air is damp, and hush'd, and close,

As a sick man's room when he taketh repose

An hour before death;

My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves,
And the breath

Of the fading edges of box beneath,
And the year's last rose.

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower

Over its grave i* the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

LORD TENNYSON



80. Ring Out, Wild Bells!

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

H. F 81



LORD TENNYSON and JAMES THOMSON

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,


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Online LibraryNorman Harold HeppleLyrical forms in English; → online text (page 5 of 17)