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University of Virginia Library

English melodies

By Charles Swain

Swain, Charles (1801-1874)

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[In a world of things ideal]

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I.

PART FIRST. SONGS AND LYRICAL PIECES

'TWAS COMING FROM THE VILLAGE CHURCH.

FORGET NOT THE UNHAPPY.

THE WOODBINE AND THE WILD ROSE.

I'VE GROWN SO NERVOUS LATELY.

NIGHT AND SILENCE.

BACCHUS AND THE PIRATES.

MY POOR OLD NURSE.

NATURE AND FASHION.

THE SUN OF LIFE.

THINGS ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM.

A HOLLOW AND A WHISTLING WIND.

I CANNOT SAY THAT EVERY DAY.

THE WOOD RANGERS.

WHY SHOULD THY VOICE.

THE HEART'S MUSIC.

THE HAIL IS BEATING.

HE'S CROSSING O'ER THE BRIDGE, JANE.

THE FIRST COUPLE.

THE NIGHT COMES COLD.

COME, LET ME TAKE THY HAND IN MINE.

THE ROAR OF THE TEMPEST.

MORN ON THE MEADOW.

EVER COMPLAINING.

DOWN THE FROZEN VALLEY.

ENOUGH AND TO SPARE.

AFFECTION UNREQUITED.

THOU WERT NOT THERE.

THE FATHERLESS HOME.

THE ROSE THOU GAV'ST.

THE CUP OF REGRET.

WHEN YOUTH WAS OURS.

WHEN OTHERS SPOKE.

COME, TELL THOSE EYES.

TO THE WORLDLING.

THE WINTER OF LIFE.

OH! EARLY CAME.

THEY SAY I HAVE NO CAUSE FOR GRIEF.

FROM THE ORIEL WINDOW.

FIVE IN THE MORNING.

I CANNOT PRETEND TO SAY.

CHILDHOOD'S HEART.

TEARS OF GLADNESS.

'TIS BETTER THAT LIFE SHOULD BE MERRY.

LUTE AND TAMBOURINE.

THOU LOV'ST ME NOT.

WHAT'S THE USE OF EXISTENCE.

TO HIM WHO FOR SIX DAYS.

THOUGH YE LIVE WITH SOME FOR YEARS.

WHAT NEED OF WORDS.

THE MOON HATH FILLED HER HORN.

THE ANGEL OF THE STORM.

OH! SOME WILL REMEMBER.

ABSENT FRIENDS.

IF THOU COULD'ST TEACH.

“WHERE PARTING IS NO MORE.”

IF THIS WORLD WE INHABIT.

THE FAIRY OF THE MOONBEAM.

EACH MAY SPEAK OF THE WORLD.

THOUGH THE LEAVES OF THE ROSE.

MANY HOPE THAT THE HEART.

THE WIFE'S RICHES.

BIRD AND RIVER.

THE LOVING HEART.

OH! FIRST TIME CAME.

TRUE LOVELINESS.

SPIRIT OF SONG.

2.

PART SECOND. SONGS AND LYRICAL PIECES

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82

COME, LET ME TAKE THY HAND IN MINE.

Come, let me take thy hand in mine,
And it shall be a token,
That I'm thy friend, till life shall end,
And this worn heart be broken:
I ask not hope—too well I know
Such hope can ne'er be given;
But I may love thee here below,
As angels love in heaven.

Nay, never turn thy face away,
Nor hide that falling tear:
It is no sorrow to decay—
When life's no longer dear!
Then let me take thy hand in mine,
For all too soon we sever;
My life is like that tear of thine—
Scarce seen—ere lost for ever.