Ionica Part 4

Sick was I in those misanthrope days Of soft caresses, womanly ways; Once that maid on the stairs I met, Lip on brow she suddenly set.

Then flushed up my chivalrous blood Like Swiss streams in a midsummer flood.

Then, oh, then, Imogen, Imogen!

Hadst thou a lover, whose years were ten.

WAR MUSIC

One hour of my boyhood, one glimpse of the past, One beam of the dawn ere the heavens were o'ercast.

I came to a castle by royalty's grace, Forgot I was bashful, and feeble, and base.

For stepping to music I dreamt of a siege, A vow to my mistress, a fight for my liege.

The first sound of trumpets that fell on mine ear Set warriors around me and made me their peer.

Meseemed we were arming, the bold for the fair, In joyous devotion and haughty despair: The warders were waiting to draw bolt and bar, The maidens attiring to gaze from afar:

I thought of the sally, but not the retreat, The cause was so glorious, the dying so sweet.

I live, I am old, I return to the ground: Blow trumpets, and still I can dream to the sound.

NUBENTI

Though the lark that upward flies Recks not of the opening skies, Nor discerneth grey from blue, Nor the rain-drop from the dew: Yet the tune which no man taught So can quicken human thought, That the startled fancies spring Faster far than voice or wing.

And the songstress as she floats Rising on her buoyant notes, Though she may the while refuse Homage to the n.o.bler Muse, Though she cannot truly tell How her voice hath wrought the spell, Fills the listener's eyes with tears, Lifts him to the inner spheres.

Lark, thy morning song is done; Overhead the silent sun Bids thee pause. But he that heard Such a strain must bless the bird.

Lady, thou hast hushed too soon Sounds that cheered my weary noon; Let met, warned by marriage bell, Whisper, Queen of Song, farewell.

WORDS FOR A PORTUGUESE AIR

They're sleeping beneath the roses; Oh, kiss them before they rise, And tickle their tiny noses, And sprinkle the dew on their eyes.

Make haste, make haste; The fairies are caught; Make haste.

We'll put them in silver cages, And send them full-drest to court, And maids of honour and pages Shall turn the poor things to sport.

Be quick, be quick; Be quicker than thought; Be quick.

Their scarfs shall be pennons for lancers, We'll tie up our flowers with their curls, Their plumes will make fans for dancers, Their tears shall be set with pearls.

Be wise, be wise, Make the most of the prize; Be wise.

They'll scatter sweet scents by winking, With sparks from under their feet; They'll save us the trouble of thinking, Their voices will sound so sweet.

Oh stay, oh stay!

They're up and away; Oh stay!

ADRIENNE AND MAURICE

(Words For The Air Commonly Called "Pestal")

I.

Fly, poor soul, fly on, No early clouds shall stop thy roaming; Fly, till day be gone, Nor fold thy wings before the gloaming.

He thou lov'st will soon be far beyond thy flight, Other lands to light, Leaving thee in night.

Let no fear of loss thy heavenly pathway cross; Better then to lose than now.

II.

Now, faint heart, arise, And proudly feel that he regards thee; Draw from G.o.dlike eyes Some grace to last when love discards thee.

Once thou hast been blest by one too high for thee; Fate will have him be Great and fancy-free, When some n.o.ble maid her hand in his hath laid, Give him up, poor heart, and break.

THE HALLOWING OF THE FLEET

Her captains for the Baltic bound In silent homage stood around; Silent, whilst holy dew Dimmed her kind eyes. She stood in tears, For she had felt a mother's fears, And wifely cares she knew.

She wept; she could not bear to say, "Sail forth, my mariners, and slay The liegemen of my foe."

Meanwhile on Russian steppe and lake Are women weeping for the sake Of them that seaward go.

Oh warriors, when you stain with gore, If this indeed must be, the floor Whereon that lady stept, When the fierce joy of battle won Hardens the heart of sire and son, Remember that she wept

THE CAIRN AND THE CHURCH

A Prince went down the banks of Dee That widen out from bleak Braemar, To drive the deer that wander free Amidst the pines of Lochnagar.

And stepping on beneath the birks On the road-side he found a spot, Which told of pibrochs, kilts, and dirks, And wars the courtiers had forgot;

Where with the streams, as each alone Down to the gathering river runs, Each on one heap to cast a stone, Came twice three hundred Farquharsons.

They raised that pile to keep for ever The memory of the loyal clan; Then, grudging not their vain endeavour, Fell at Culloden to a man.

And she, whose grandsire's uncle slew Those dwellers on the banks of Dee, Sighed for those tender hearts and true, And whispered: "Who would die for me?"

Oh, lady, turn thee southward. Show Thy standard on thine own Thames-side; Let us be called to meet thy foe, Our Kith be pledged, our honour tried.