The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley [i.e. J. B. L. Warren] |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
|
THE FIRST MADRIGAL |
 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
THE FIRST MADRIGAL
Come away, O gentle breast,
Who can tell if Love will stay?
As the purple in the west,
Love at even fades away:
As the breaker's foam-wreath crest
Cannot keep its iris ray.
Who can tell if Love will stay?
As the purple in the west,
Love at even fades away:
As the breaker's foam-wreath crest
Cannot keep its iris ray.
Bloom at ease, most radiant rose,
Spread thy splendour flushed with light;
Will the cloudy verge disclose
Halcyon skies for ever bright?
Who can tell, what drifted snows
Menace from the deep-browed night?
Spread thy splendour flushed with light;
Will the cloudy verge disclose
Halcyon skies for ever bright?
Who can tell, what drifted snows
Menace from the deep-browed night?
Fear the fiercely driving rack
With its drench of swollen hail;
Who shall build thy petals back,
If they fall beneath its flail,
Shattered, in a whirlwind's track,
Ruined rosebud of the vale?
With its drench of swollen hail;
Who shall build thy petals back,
If they fall beneath its flail,
Shattered, in a whirlwind's track,
Ruined rosebud of the vale?
Will the gnawing canker's hate
Blight the buds, tho' tempest spare?
Beauty has no certain date:
If one instant she is fair,
Lapsing Time and wheeling Fate
Change her grandeur to despair.
Blight the buds, tho' tempest spare?
Beauty has no certain date:
If one instant she is fair,
Lapsing Time and wheeling Fate
Change her grandeur to despair.
402
Love, who burning came at noon,
Coldly turns at eve to go.
When the golden hours of June
Change into the month of snow,
Weeping Love forgets too soon
Kisses, which he used to know.
Coldly turns at eve to go.
When the golden hours of June
Change into the month of snow,
Weeping Love forgets too soon
Kisses, which he used to know.
Pale his cheek, his eyes are dim,
Sick he lies and like to die.
Lute and harp, make dirge for him,
Where the yellowing wood-leaves lie:
Colder grows each noble limb;
Call, he cannot now reply.
Sick he lies and like to die.
Lute and harp, make dirge for him,
Where the yellowing wood-leaves lie:
Colder grows each noble limb;
Call, he cannot now reply.
Calm he lies in marble sleep,
Shrouded round with branching yew:
His sad eyes in slumber deep,
Our sad eyes the tears bedew:
For the Love-Lord, weep, O weep,
Gather rosemary and rue.
Shrouded round with branching yew:
His sad eyes in slumber deep,
Our sad eyes the tears bedew:
For the Love-Lord, weep, O weep,
Gather rosemary and rue.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |