SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.
AWAKE!-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!
LXIX. THE ONSET. A BATTLE SONG.
SOUND an alarum! The foe is come!
I hear the tramp,-the neigh,-the hum,
The cry, and the blow of his daring drum :
Huzzah!
Sound! The blast of our trumpet blown
Shall carry dismay into hearts of stone:
What! shall we shake at a foe unknown?
Huzzah!-Huzzah!
Have we not sinews as strong as they?
Have we not hearts that ne'er gave way?
Have we not GOD on our side to-day?
Look! They are staggered on yon black heath!
Steady awhile, and hold your breath!
Now is your time, men,-Down like Death!
Huzzah!-Huzzah!
Stand by each other, and front your foes!
Fight, whilst a drop of the red blood flows!
Fight, as ye fought for the old red rose !
Sound! Bid your terrible trumpets bray!
Blow, till their brazen throats give way!
Sound to the battle! Sound, I say!
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.
HIDE me, O twilight Air!
Hide me, from thought, from care,
From all things, foul or fair,
Until to-morrow!
To-night I strive no more;
No more my soul shall soar:
Come, Sleep, and shut the door
'Gainst Pain and Sorrow!
If I must see through dreams,
Be mine Elysian gleams,
Be mine by morning streams
To watch and wander!
So may my spirit cast
(Serpent-like) off the past,
And my free soul at last
Have leave to ponder!
And, should'st thou 'scape control,
Ponder on love, sweet Soul,
On joy, the end and goal
Of all endeavour!
But, if earth's pains will rise,
(As damps will seek the skies,)
Then, Night, seal thou mine eyes,
In sleep, for ever!
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.
RISE! Sleep no more: 'Tis a noble morn.
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn:
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,
Under the steaming steaming ground.
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady-So, ho!
I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow.
Hark, hark!-Who calleth the maiden Morn,
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn
The horn,-the horn!
The merry sweet ring of the hunter's horn.
Now, Thorough the copse, where the fox is found,
And over the brook, at a mighty bound,
And over the high lands, and over the low,
O'er furrows, o'er meadows the hunters go!
Away!-as a hawk flies full at its prey,
So flieth the hunter, away,-away!
From the burst at the cover, till set of sun,
When the red fox dies and-the day is done!
Hark, hark!-What sound on the wind is borne ?
'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's horn.
The horn, the horn!
The merry bold voice of the hunter's horn.
Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good
What's the gulley deep or the roaring flood?
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds,
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.
Oh!-what delight can a mortal lack,
When he once is firm on his horse's back,
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong,
And the blast of the horn for his morning song?
Hark, hark!-Now, home! and dream till morn,
Of the bold sweet sound of the hunter's horn!
The horn, the horn!
Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn!
SLEEP,-sleep, my Lyre!
Untouch'd,-unsought,-unstrung!
No one now will e'er inquire
If poet to thee ever sung;
Nor if his spirit clung
To thy witching wire !
Bid thy soul of music sleep,
As winds lie on the charmed deep,
When the mistress Moon doth chide
The tempest, or the murmuring tide!
Oblivion is a happy lot!
'Tis well to be a thing forgot!
"Tis well that neither Love, nor Woe,
Nor sad sweet thoughts of long ago,
Should 'waken again thy self-consuming fire!
Therefore, therefore,-sleep my Lyre!
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