Victorian Songs Part 23

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.

[Decoration]

_BREAK, BREAK, BREAK._

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play!

O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately s.h.i.+ps go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Full-page Plate]

_TEARS, IDLE TEARS._

FROM "THE PRINCESS."

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-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The cas.e.m.e.nt slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 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.

[Decoration]

_SWEET AND LOW._

FROM "THE PRINCESS."

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.

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.

_TURN, FORTUNE, TURN THY WHEEL._

FROM "THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT."

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; Turn thy wild wheel thro' suns.h.i.+ne, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Our h.o.a.rd is little, but our hearts are great.

Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; For man is man and master of his fate.

Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

_VIVIEN'S SONG._

FROM "MERLIN AND VIVIEN."

In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

The little rift within the lover's lute Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, That rotting inward slowly moulders all.

It is not worth the keeping: let it go: But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.

And trust me not at all or all in all.

[Decoration]

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

1811-1863.

_AT THE CHURCH GATE._

FROM "PENDENNIS."

Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover: And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout, And noise and humming: They 've hushed the Minster bell: The organ 'gins to swell: She 's coming, she 's coming!