My Lyrical Life Poems Old and New. By Gerald Massey |
 | 1. |
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| 2. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
|
OUR ENGLISH NIGHTINGALE. |
|
 | My Lyrical Life |  |
OUR ENGLISH NIGHTINGALE.
“
You
brave, you bonny Nightingale,
You are no summer Bird;
Your music sheathes an Army's wail
That pierces like a Sword.”
All night she sings, dear Nightingale,
With breast against the thorn;
Her saintly patience doth not fail,
She keepeth watch till morn.
You are no summer Bird;
Your music sheathes an Army's wail
That pierces like a Sword.”
All night she sings, dear Nightingale,
With breast against the thorn;
Her saintly patience doth not fail,
She keepeth watch till morn.
“Ah, sing, you bonniest Bird of God,
The night is sad and long;
To dying ears—to broken hearts—
You sing an Angel's song!”
She sings, she sings, our Nightingale,
And weary warrior souls
Are caught up into Slumber's heaven,
And lapped in Love's warm folds.
The night is sad and long;
To dying ears—to broken hearts—
You sing an Angel's song!”
She sings, she sings, our Nightingale,
And weary warrior souls
Are caught up into Slumber's heaven,
And lapped in Love's warm folds.
“O sing, O sing! dear Nightingale,
For, at your magic note,
Upon Life's sea victoriously
The sinking soul will float.
O sing, O sing! dear Nightingale,
And lure them back again,
Whose path is lost and spirit crossed,
In dark wild woods of Pain.”
For, at your magic note,
Upon Life's sea victoriously
The sinking soul will float.
366
And lure them back again,
Whose path is lost and spirit crossed,
In dark wild woods of Pain.”
She sings, she sings, our Nightingale,
She breathes a gracious balm;
Her presence breaks the waves of war,
She smiles them into calm.
She sings, she sings, our Nightingale,
Of auld Langsyne and Home;
And life grows light, the world grows bright,
And blood runs rich with bloom.
She breathes a gracious balm;
Her presence breaks the waves of war,
She smiles them into calm.
She sings, she sings, our Nightingale,
Of auld Langsyne and Home;
And life grows light, the world grows bright,
And blood runs rich with bloom.
Day after day her dainty hands
Make Life's soiled temples clean,
And there's a wake of glory where
Her spirit pure hath been.
At midnight, through that shadow-land,
Her living face doth gleam;
The dying kiss her shadow, and
The Dead smile in their dream.
Make Life's soiled temples clean,
And there's a wake of glory where
Her spirit pure hath been.
At midnight, through that shadow-land,
Her living face doth gleam;
The dying kiss her shadow, and
The Dead smile in their dream.
Brave Bird of Love, in Life's sweet May,
She rose up from the feast,
To shine above our Banner,
Like God's Angel in the East.
“Brave Bird of Life, wave healing wings
O'er that gray Land o' the Dead;
God's heaven lie round you like a shield,
Earth's blessings on your head.”
She rose up from the feast,
To shine above our Banner,
Like God's Angel in the East.
“Brave Bird of Life, wave healing wings
O'er that gray Land o' the Dead;
God's heaven lie round you like a shield,
Earth's blessings on your head.”
The Rose did lift her veil, and blush
At her Bower-door like a bride:
The shy brown birds came back with Spring,
In merry greenwood to hide.
But there she sang, our Nightingale,
Till War's stern heart grew mild,
And, nestling in the arms of Peace,
He slumbered like a Child.
At her Bower-door like a bride:
The shy brown birds came back with Spring,
In merry greenwood to hide.
367
Till War's stern heart grew mild,
And, nestling in the arms of Peace,
He slumbered like a Child.
| My Lyrical Life | |