B. W. PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL).

1787-1874.

THE POET’S SONG TO HIS WIFE.
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. H ow many Summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine? Time, like the wingèd wind When ’t bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind, To count the hours! Some weight of thought, though loth, On thee he leaves; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves; Some fears,—a soft regret For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget;— All else is flown! Ah! with what thankless heart I mourn and sing! Look, where our children start, Like sudden Spring! With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and Time!
A PETITION TO TIME.
1831. T ouch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,—as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream! Humble voyagers are We, Husband, wife, and children three— (One is lost,—an angel, fled To the azure overhead!) Touch us gently, Time! We ’ve not proud nor soaring wings: Our ambition, our content Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are We, O’er Life’s dim unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime:— Touch us gently, gentle Time!
A BACCHANALIAN SONG.
SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS. S ing!—Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah, who is this lady fine? The Vine, boys, the Vine! The mother of mighty Wine. A roamer is she O’er wall and tree, And sometimes very good company. Drink!—Who drinks To her who blusheth and never thinks? Ah, who is this maid of thine? The Grape, boys, the Grape! O, never let her escape Until she be turned to Wine! For better is she Than vine can be, And very, very good company! Dream!—Who dreams Of the God that governs a thousand streams? Ah, who is this Spirit fine? ’T is Wine, boys, ’t is Wine! God Bacchus, a friend of mine. O better is he Than grape or tree, And the best of all good company.
SHE WAS NOT FAIR NOR FULL OF GRACE. S he was not fair, nor full of grace, Nor crowned with thought or aught beside; No wealth had she, of mind or face, To win our love, or raise our pride: No lover’s thought her cheek did touch; No poet’s dream was ’round her thrown; And yet we miss her—ah, too much, Now—she hath flown! We miss her when the morning calls, As one that mingled in our mirth; We miss her when the evening falls,— A trifle wanted on the earth! Some fancy small or subtle thought Is checked ere to its blossom grown; Some chain is broken that we wrought, Now—she hath flown! No solid good, nor hope defined, Is marred now she hath sunk in night; And yet the strong immortal Mind Is stopped in its triumphant flight! Stern friend, what power is in a tear, What strength in one poor thought alone, When all we know is—“She was here,” And—“She hath flown!”
THE SEA-KING.
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. C ome sing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King, And the fame that now hangs o’er him, Who once did sweep o’er the vanquish’d deep, And drove the world before him! His deck was a throne, on the ocean lone, And the sea was his park of pleasure, Where he scattered in fear the human deer, And rested,—when he had leisure! Come,—shout and sing Of the great Sea-King, And ride in the track he rode in! He sits at the head Of the mighty dead, On the red right hand of Odin! He sprang, from birth, like a God on earth, And soared on his victor pinions, And he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee, When they gaze on their blue dominions. His whole earth life was a conquering strife, And he lived till his beard grew hoary, And he died at last, by his blood-red mast, And now—he is lost in glory! So,—shout and sing, &c.
A SERENADE.
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. A wake!—The starry midnight Hour Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight: In its own sweetness sleeps the flower; And the doves lie hushed in deep delight! Awake! Awake! Look forth, my love, for Love’s sweet sake! Awake!—Soft dews will soon arise From daisied mead, and thorny brake; Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, And like the tender morning break! Awake! Awake! Dawn forth, my love, for Love’s sweet sake! Awake!—Within the musk-rose bower I watch, pale flower of love, for thee; Ah, come, and shew the starry Hour What wealth of love thou hid’st from me! Awake! Awake! Shew all thy love, for Love’s sweet sake! Awake!—Ne’er heed, though listening Night Steal music from thy silver voice: Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright, And bid the world and me rejoice! Awake! Awake! She comes,—at last, for Love’s sweet sake!

KING DEATH.
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. K ing Death was a rare old fellow! He sate where no sun could shine; And he lifted his hand so yellow, And poured out his coal-black wine. Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine! There came to him many a Maiden, Whose eyes had forgot to shine; And Widows, with grief o’erladen, For a draught of his sleepy wine. Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine! The Scholar left all his learning; The Poet his fancied woes; And the Beauty her bloom returning, As the beads of the black wine rose. Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine! All came to the royal old fellow, Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, As he gave them his hand so yellow, And pledged them in Death’s black wine. Hurrah!—Hurrah! Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!
SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL. S it down, sad soul, and count The moments flying: Come,—tell the sweet amount That ’s lost by sighing! How many smiles?—a score? Then laugh, and count no more; For day is dying! Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, And no more measure The flight of Time, nor weep The loss of leisure; But here, by this lone stream, Lie down with us, and dream Of starry treasure! We dream: do thou the same: We love—for ever: We laugh; yet few we shame, The gentle, never. Stay, then, till Sorrow dies; Then—hope and happy skies Are thine for ever!
A DRINKING SONG. D rink, and fill the night with mirth! Let us have a mighty measure, Till we quite forget the earth, And soar into the world of pleasure. Drink, and let a health go round, (’T is the drinker’s noble duty,) To the eyes that shine and wound, To the mouths that bud in beauty! Here ’s to Helen! Why, ah! why Doth she fly from my pursuing? Here ’s to Marian, cold and shy! May she warm before thy wooing! Here ’s to Janet! I ’ve been e’er, Boy and man, her staunch defender, Always sworn that she was fair, Always known that she was tender! Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high! Let them with the champagne tremble, Like the loose wrack in the sky, When the four wild winds assemble! Here ’s to all the love on earth, (Love, the young man’s, wise man’s treasure!) Drink, and fill your throats with mirth! Drink, and drown the world in pleasure!
PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL? P eace! what can tears avail? She lies all dumb and pale, And from her eye, The spirit of lovely life is fading, And she must die! Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding? Reply, reply! Hath she not dwelt too long ’Midst pain, and grief, and wrong? Then, why not die? Why suffer again her doom of sorrow, And hopeless lie? Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow? Reply, reply! Death! Take her to thine arms, In all her stainless charms, And with her fly To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness, The Angels lie! Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness? Reply,—reply!
THE SEA.
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. T he Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth’s wide regions ’round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies. I ’m on the Sea! I ’m on the Sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe’er I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep. I love (oh! how I love) to ride On the fierce foaming bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the south-west blasts do blow. I never was on the dull tame shore, But I loved the great Sea more and more, And backwards flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest; And a mother she was, and is to me; For I was born on the open Sea! The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the Ocean-child! I ’ve lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor’s life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought, nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he come to me, Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea!