Poems By Edward Henry Bickersteth |
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TO A FOREIGNER HEARING “HERZ MEIN HERZ” SUNG TO THE HARP. |
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63
TO A FOREIGNER HEARING “HERZ MEIN HERZ” SUNG TO THE HARP.
Wakes it a chord of thy native land,
That wild and plaintive strain?
Why follow thine eyes with tears the hand
As it touches the harp again?
That wild and plaintive strain?
Why follow thine eyes with tears the hand
As it touches the harp again?
It seems like a gush of the mountain breeze,
Or sweeter, from Swerga bowers,
To wanderers wandering o'er wilderness seas
In summer's weariest hours.
Or sweeter, from Swerga bowers,
To wanderers wandering o'er wilderness seas
In summer's weariest hours.
Speaks it to thee of mountains blue,
And the free-born torrent's foam?
Or of thoughts more deep than these and true,
And feelings closer home?
And the free-born torrent's foam?
Or of thoughts more deep than these and true,
And feelings closer home?
64
Play on, play on, let the music flow
Mine heart, mine heart, o'er thee;
Oh cease not, for I cannot go,
Those tones keep whispering me.
Mine heart, mine heart, o'er thee;
Oh cease not, for I cannot go,
Those tones keep whispering me.
They whisper of deep-blue starry skies,
My native hills above;
And the stars methinks are a thousand eyes,
And all are bright with love.
My native hills above;
And the stars methinks are a thousand eyes,
And all are bright with love.
They speak of torrents far away,
Of affection's gushing springs;
But how can language speak, I pray,
The heart's unutter'd things?
Of affection's gushing springs;
But how can language speak, I pray,
The heart's unutter'd things?
Oh ere those lovely things have pass'd,
Lady, play on, play on;
Sweet was the dream, too sweet to last.
Dear Lady—it is gone.
Lady, play on, play on;
Sweet was the dream, too sweet to last.
Dear Lady—it is gone.
1845.
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