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LOVER'S SONG
("Mon âme à ton coeur s'est donnée.")
{ANGELO, Act II., May, 1835.}
My soul unto thy heart is given,
In mystic fold do they entwine,
So bound in one that, were they riven,
Apart my soul would life resign.
Thou art my song and I the lyre;
Thou art the breeze and I the brier;
The altar I, and thou the fire;
Mine the deep love, the beauty thine!
As fleets away the rapid hour
While weeping – may
My sorrowing lay
Touch thee, sweet flower.
ERNEST OSWALD COE.
A FLEETING GLIMPSE OF A VILLAGE.
("Tout vit! et se pose avec grâce.")
How graceful the picture! the life, the repose!
The sunbeam that plays on the porchstone wide;
And the shadow that fleets o'er the stream that flows,
And the soft blue sky with the hill's green side.
Fraser's Magazine.
LORD ROCHESTER'S SONG
("Un soldat au dur visage.")
{CROMWELL, ACT I.}
"Hold, little blue-eyed page!"
So cried the watchers surly,
Stern to his pretty rage
And golden hair so curly —
"Methinks your satin cloak
Masks something bulky under;
I take this as no joke —
Oh, thief with stolen plunder!"
"I am of high repute,
And famed among the truthful:
This silver-handled lute
Is meet for one still youthful
Who goes to keep a tryst
With her who is his dearest.
I charge you to desist;
My cause is of the clearest."
But guardsmen are so sharp,
Their eyes are as the lynx's:
"That's neither lute nor harp —
Your mark is not the minxes.
Your loving we dispute —
That string of steel so cruel
For music does not suit —
You go to fight a duel!"
THE BEGGAR'S QUATRAIN
("Aveugle comme Homère.")
{Improvised at the Café de Paris.}
Blind, as was Homer; as Belisarius, blind,
But one weak child to guide his vision dim.
The hand which dealt him bread, in pity kind —
He'll never see; God sees it, though, for him.
H.L.C., "London Society."
THE QUIET RURAL CHURCH
It was a humble church, with arches low,
The church we entered there,
Where many a weary soul since long ago
Had past with plaint or prayer.
Mournful and still it was at day's decline,
The day we entered there;
As in a loveless heart, at the lone shrine,
The fires extinguished were.
Scarcely was heard to float some gentlest sound,
Scarcely some low breathed word,
As in a forest fallen asleep, is found
Just one belated bird.
A STORM SIMILE.
("Oh, regardez le ciel!")
{June, 1828.}
("Mon âme à ton coeur s'est donnée.")
{ANGELO, Act II., May, 1835.}
My soul unto thy heart is given,
In mystic fold do they entwine,
So bound in one that, were they riven,
Apart my soul would life resign.
Thou art my song and I the lyre;
Thou art the breeze and I the brier;
The altar I, and thou the fire;
Mine the deep love, the beauty thine!
As fleets away the rapid hour
While weeping – may
My sorrowing lay
Touch thee, sweet flower.
ERNEST OSWALD COE.
A FLEETING GLIMPSE OF A VILLAGE.
("Tout vit! et se pose avec grâce.")
How graceful the picture! the life, the repose!
The sunbeam that plays on the porchstone wide;
And the shadow that fleets o'er the stream that flows,
And the soft blue sky with the hill's green side.
Fraser's Magazine.
LORD ROCHESTER'S SONG
("Un soldat au dur visage.")
{CROMWELL, ACT I.}
"Hold, little blue-eyed page!"
So cried the watchers surly,
Stern to his pretty rage
And golden hair so curly —
"Methinks your satin cloak
Masks something bulky under;
I take this as no joke —
Oh, thief with stolen plunder!"
"I am of high repute,
And famed among the truthful:
This silver-handled lute
Is meet for one still youthful
Who goes to keep a tryst
With her who is his dearest.
I charge you to desist;
My cause is of the clearest."
But guardsmen are so sharp,
Their eyes are as the lynx's:
"That's neither lute nor harp —
Your mark is not the minxes.
Your loving we dispute —
That string of steel so cruel
For music does not suit —
You go to fight a duel!"
THE BEGGAR'S QUATRAIN
("Aveugle comme Homère.")
{Improvised at the Café de Paris.}
Blind, as was Homer; as Belisarius, blind,
But one weak child to guide his vision dim.
The hand which dealt him bread, in pity kind —
He'll never see; God sees it, though, for him.
H.L.C., "London Society."
THE QUIET RURAL CHURCH
It was a humble church, with arches low,
The church we entered there,
Where many a weary soul since long ago
Had past with plaint or prayer.
Mournful and still it was at day's decline,
The day we entered there;
As in a loveless heart, at the lone shrine,
The fires extinguished were.
Scarcely was heard to float some gentlest sound,
Scarcely some low breathed word,
As in a forest fallen asleep, is found
Just one belated bird.
A STORM SIMILE.
("Oh, regardez le ciel!")
{June, 1828.}
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