With one brief winter, and indue i' the spring Hues of fresh youth, and mightily outgrow Than wan dark coil of faded suffering Forth in the pride of beauty issuing A sheeny snake, the light of vernal bowers, Moving his crest to all sweet plots of flowers And watered valleys where the young birds sing; Could I thus hope my lost delight's renewing, I straightly would command the tears to creep From my charged lids; but inwardly I weep; SONNET. THOUGH Night hath climbed her peak And bitter blasts the screaming autumn of highest noon, whirl, All night through archways of the bridged pearl, And portals of pure silver, walks the moon. Walk on, my soul, nor crouch to agony, Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to joy, And dross to gold with glorious alchemy, Basing thy throne above the world's annoy. Reign thou above the storms of sorrow and ruth That roar beneath; unshaken peace hath won thee; So shalt thou pierce the woven glooms of truth; So shall the blessing of the meek be on thee; So in thine hour of dawn, the body's youth, An honorable eld shall come upon thee. SONNET. SHALL the hag Evil die with child of Good, Or propagate again her loathéd kind, Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Though hourly pastured on the salient blood? O that the wind which bloweth cold or heat Would shatter and o'erbear the brazen beat Of their broad vans, and in the solitude Of middle space confound them, and blow back Their wild cries down their cavern throats, and slake With points of blast-borne hail their heated eyne! So their wan limbs no more might come between The moon and the moon's reflex in the night, LOVE. I. THOU, from the first, unborn, undying love, Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near, Before the face of God didst breathe and move, Though night and pain and ruin and death reign here. Thou foldest, like a golden atmosphere, The very throne of the eternal God: Passing through thee the edicts of his fear Are mellowed into music, borne abroad Nor blot with floating shades the solar By the loud winds, though they uprend light. SONNET. THE pallid thunder-stricken sigh for gain, Down an ideal stream they ever float, And sailing on Pactolus in a boat, Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they strain Weak eyes upon the glistening sands that robe The understream. The wise, could he behold Cathedraled caverns of thick-ribbéd gold And branching silvers of the central globe, Would marvel from so beautiful a sight How scorn and ruin, pain and hate could flow: But Hatred in a gold cave sits below; Pleached with her hair, in mail of argent light Shot into gold, a snake her forehead clips, And skins the color from her trembling lips. the sea, Even from its central deeps: thine III. And now-methinks I gaze upon thee now, As on a serpent in his agonies Awe-stricken Indians; what time laid low And crushing the thick fragrant reeds he lies, When the new year warm-breathed on the Earth, Waiting to light him with her purple skies, Calls to him by the fountain to uprise. Already with the pangs of a new birth Strain the hot spheres of his convulséd eyes, And in his writhings awful hues begin To wander down his sable-sheeny sides, Like light on troubled waters: from within Anon he rusheth forth with merry din, And in him light and joy and strength abides; And from his brows a crown of living light Looks through the thick-stemmed woods by day and night. For where is the heart and strength of slaves? Oh! where is the strength of slaves? He is weak! we are strong: he a slave, we are free; Come along! we will dig their graves. CHO-Shout for England! etc. There standeth our ancient enemy; Will he dare to battle with the free? Spur along! spur amain! charge to the fight: Charge! charge to the fight! Hold up the Lion of England on high! Shout for God and our right! CHO.-Shout for England! etc. NATIONAL SONG. THERE is no land like England Where'er the light of day be; There are no hearts like English hearts, Such hearts of oak as they be. There is no land like England Where'er the light of day be; There are no men like Englishmen, So tall and bold as they be. CHORUS. For the French the Pope may shrive 'em FULL CHORUS. Our glory is our freedom, We lord it o'er the sea; We are the sons of freedom, We are free. There is no land like England, Where'er the light of day be; There are no wives like English wives, So fair and chaste as they be. Hum a lovelay to the west-wind at Both alike, they buzz together, Where in a creeping cove the wave unshocked 'Lays itself calm and wide Over a stream two birds of glancing feather Do woo each other, carolling Both alike, they glide together, Both alike, they sing together, Arching blue-glosséd necks beneath the purple weather Two children lovelier than Love adown the lea are singing As they gambol, lily-garlands ever stringing: Both inblosm white silk are frockéd : Like, unlike, they sing together Mid May's darling golden locked. WE ARE FREE. THE winds, as at their hour of birth, Leaning upon the wingéd sea, Breathed low around the rolling earth With mellow preludes, "We are free." Whither SONG. away, whither whither away, away? Fly no more: Whither away wi' the singing sail? whither away wi' the oar? Whither away from the high green field and the happy blossoming shore? Furl the sail and the foam will fall Know danger and trouble and toil no And thick with white bells the cloverhill swells High over the full-toned sea. Merrily carol the revelling gales Over the islands free; From the green seabanks the rose down trails To the happy brimméd sea. Come hither, come hither and be our lords, For merry brides are we ; We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words. O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten With pleasure and love and revelry; O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten, When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords Runs up the ridged sea. Ye will not find so happy a shore, Weary mariners! all the world o'er ; O, fly no more! Hearken ye, hearken ye, sorrow shall darken ye, Danger and trouble and toil no more; Whither away? Drop the oar; O fly no more-no more : Whither away, whither away, whither away with the sail and the oar? |