DIRGE FOR WOLFRAM. [Death's Jest Book, Act ii.] If thou wilt ease thine heart Of love and all its smart, Then sleep, dear, sleep; And not a sorrow Hang any tear on your eyelashes; Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes The rim o' the sun to-morrow, In eastern sky. But wilt thou cure thine heart Of love and all its smart, Then die, dear, die; 'Tis deeper, sweeter, Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming And there alone, amid the beaming SONG. [Torrismond, Sc. iii.] How many times do I love thee, dear? Tell me how many thoughts there be In the atmosphere Of a new-fall'n year, Whose white and sable.hours appear So many times do I love thee, dear. How many times do I love, again? Of evening rain Unravelled from the tumbling main And threading the eye of a yellow star :So many times do I love again. AMALA'S BRIDAL SONG. [From Death's Jest Book, Act iv.] Female Voices. We have bathed, where none have seen us, In the lake and in the fountain, Underneath the charmëd statue Of the timid, bending Venus, When the water-nymphs were counting In the waves the stars of night, And those maidens started at you, Your limbs shone through so soft and bright. But no secrets dare we tell, For thy slaves unlace thee, And he, who shall embrace thee, Male Voices. We have crowned thee queen of women, And thine eye, in beauty swimming, Like an ocean bounds and gushes, And spirits bend at thy control. And he, who shall embrace thee, Is at hand, and so farewell. ATHULF'S SONG. [From Death's Jest Book, Act iv.] A cypress-bough, and a rose-wreath sweet, A wedding-robe, and a winding-sheet, A bridal bed and a bier. Thine be the kisses, maid, And smiling Love's alarms; Now tremble dimples on your cheek, By her the bride-god fair, In youthful power and force; By him the grizard bare, Pale knight on a pale horse, Death and Hymen both are here, SAILORS' SONG. [From Death's Jest Book, Act i.] To sea, to sea! The calm is o'er ; To sea, to sea! our wide-winged bark The anchor heaves, the ship swings free, HESPERUS' SONG. [From The Bride's Tragedy, Act i.] Poor old pilgrim Misery, Beneath the silent moon he sate, His scant grey hair all wet with dew, Anon a wanton imp astray His piteous moaning hears, And from his bosom steals away With his plunder fled that urchin elf, Then tell me back the stolen pelf, Or your cry shall be ever, alack! SONG OF THE STYGIAN NAIADES. Proserpine may pull her flowers, And comes home nightly, laden, All that you and I do know Is, that we saw fly and fix 'Mongst the reeds and flowers of Styx, Yesterday, Where the Furies made their hay For a bed of tiger-cubs, A great fly of Beelzebub's, The bee of hearts, whom mortals name Cupid, Love, and Fie for shame. Proserpine may weep in rage, |