English Songs and Ballads Part 57

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

I ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE

PERCY BYSSHE Sh.e.l.lEY

I arise from dreams of thee, In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are s.h.i.+ning bright; I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me--who knows how?

To thy chamber-window, Sweet

The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream,-- The champetre odours fail, Like sweet thoughts in a dream, The nightingale's complaint It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the gra.s.s!

I die, I faint, I fail.

Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heart beats loud and fast.

Oh! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last.

LAMENT

O world! O life! O time!

On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime?

No more--oh, never more!

Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter h.o.a.r, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more--oh, never more!

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY

The fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle-- Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother: And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea;-- What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me?

HYMN OF PAN

From the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb, Listening to my sweet pipings.

The wind in the reeds and the rushes, The bees on the bells of thyme, The birds on the myrtle bushes, The cicale above in the lime, And the lizards below in the gra.s.s, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing The light of the dying day, Speeded by my sweet pipings.

The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns, And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow, Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the daedal earth, And of heaven, and the giant wars, And love, and death, and birth.

And then I changed my pipings-- Singing how down the vale of Maenalus I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed: G.o.ds and men, we are all deluded thus; It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.

All wept--as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood-- At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

JOHN KEATS

'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.

'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!

So haggard and so woebegone?

The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.

'I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew.

And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.'

'I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful--a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

'I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

'I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song.

'She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true."