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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 ;

Lie still and deep,
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

With folded eye ; And there alone, amid the beaming Of Love's stars, thou 'lt meet her

In eastern sky.

SONG.

[Torrismond, Sc. ill.)

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

The latest flake of Eternity :-
So many imes do I love thee, dear.

How many times do I love, again ?
Tell me how many beads there are

In a silver chain

Of evening rain Unravelled from the tumbling main

And threading the eye of a yellow stas 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,
Waits to try thy beauty's spell.

Male Voices.
We have crowned thee queen of women,
Since love's love, the rose, hath kept hes

Court within thy lips and blushes, And thine eye, in beauty swimming,

Kissing, we rendered up the sceptre, At whose touch the startled soul

Like an ocean bounds and gushes, And spirits bend at thy control.

But no secrets dare we tell,

For thy slaves unlace thee,

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;
And thou, pale youth, be laid

In the grave's cold arms.
Each in his own charms,
Death and Hymen both are here ;

So up with scythe and torch,

And to the old church porch,

While all the bells ring clear : And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom, And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb.

Now tremble dimples on your cheek,
Sweet be your lips to taste and speak,

For he who kisses is near :
By her the bride-god fair,

In youthful power and force ;
By him the grizard bare,

Pale knight on a pale horse,
To woo him to a corse.
Death and Hymen both are here,

So up with scythe and torch,

And to the old church porch,

While all the bells ring clear :
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom,
And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb.

SAILORS' SONG.

[From Death's Jest Book, Act i.]

To sea, to sea! The calm is o'er ;

The wanton water leaps in sport, And rattles down the pebbly shore ;

The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort, And unseen mermaids' pearly song Comes bubbling up, the weeds among.

Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar : To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er.

To sea, to sea ! our wide-winged bark

Shall billowy cleave its sunny way,
And with its shadow, fleet and dark,

Break the caved Tritons' azure day,
Like mighty eagle soaring light
O'er antelopes on Alpine height.

The anchor heaves, the ship swings free,
The sails swell full. To sea, to sea!

HESPERUS SONG.

(From The Bride's Tragedy, Act l.)

Poor old pilgrim Misery,

Beneath the silent moon he sate, A-listening to the screech-owl's cry,

And the cold wind's goblin prate ;
Beside him lay his staff of yew

With withered willow twined,
His scant grey hair all wet with dew,
His cheeks with grief ybrined ;
And his cry it was ever, alack I

Alack, and woe is me!

Anon a wanton imp astray

His piteous moaning hears,
And from his bosom steals away

His rosary of tears :
With his plunder fled that urchin elf,

And hid it in your eyes,
Then tell me back the stolen pelf,
Give up the lawless prize ;
Or your cry shall be ever, alack !

Alack, and woe is me!

SONG OF THE STYGIAN NAIADES.

Proserpine may pull her flowers,

Wet with dew or wet with tears,

Red with anger, pale with fears,
Is it any fault of ours,
If Pluto be an amorous king,

And comes home nightly, laden,
Underneath his broad bat-wing,

With a gentle, mortal maiden? Is it so, Wind, is it so ? 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,

But, ere you and I have done

Kissing, bathing in the sun, What I have in yonder cage,

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