 | London lyrics |  |
81
MY SONG
You ask a Song,
Such as of yore, an autumn's eventide,
Some blest Boy-Poet caroll'd,—and then died.
Nay, I have sung too long.
Such as of yore, an autumn's eventide,
Some blest Boy-Poet caroll'd,—and then died.
Nay, I have sung too long.
Say, shall I fling
A sigh to Beauty at her window-pane?
I sang there once, may not I once again?
Or tell me whom to sing.
A sigh to Beauty at her window-pane?
I sang there once, may not I once again?
Or tell me whom to sing.
—The peer of Peers?
Lord of the wealth that gives his time employ:
Time to possess, but hardly to enjoy—
He cannot need my tears.
Lord of the wealth that gives his time employ:
Time to possess, but hardly to enjoy—
He cannot need my tears.
—The man of Mind
Or Priest who darken what was never day?
I cannot sing them, yet I will not say
Such guides are wholly blind.
Or Priest who darken what was never day?
I cannot sing them, yet I will not say
Such guides are wholly blind.
82
—The Orator?
He quiet lies where yon fresh hillock heaves:
'Twere well to sprinkle there those laurel-leaves
He won, but never wore.
He quiet lies where yon fresh hillock heaves:
'Twere well to sprinkle there those laurel-leaves
He won, but never wore.
Or shall I twine
The Cypress? Wreath of glory and of gloom.—
To march a gallant Soldier to his doom
Needs fuller voice than mine.
The Cypress? Wreath of glory and of gloom.—
To march a gallant Soldier to his doom
Needs fuller voice than mine.
No Lay have I,
No murmur'd measure meet for your delight,
No Song of Love and Death, to make you quite
Forget that we must die.
No murmur'd measure meet for your delight,
No Song of Love and Death, to make you quite
Forget that we must die.
Something is wrong;
The World is over-wise; or, more's the pity,
These days are far too serious for a Ditty,
Yet take it,—take My Song.
The World is over-wise; or, more's the pity,
These days are far too serious for a Ditty,
Yet take it,—take My Song.
1876.
| London lyrics | |