The Poems of Charles Wolfe

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A. H. Bullen, 1903 - 61 sider

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Side 2 - We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
Side 3 - The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more ! And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again ; And still the thought I will not brook That I must look in vain ! But when I speak — thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary ! thou art dead...
Side 2 - But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!
Side 1 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
Side 4 - And still upon that face I look And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook That I must look in vain ! But when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; And now I feel, as well I may. Sweet Mary, thou art dead ! If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, All cold and all serene, — I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been...
Side 2 - Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.
Side 4 - Sweet Mary, thou art dead! If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, All cold and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been. While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; But there I lay thee in thy grave, — And I am now alone! I do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart In thinking, too, of thee; Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could...
Side 2 - Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him ! But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Side 5 - Go, forget me — why should sorrow O'er that brow a shadow fling ? Go. forget me — and to-morrow Brightly smile and sweetly sing. Smile — though I shall not be near thee, Sing, though I shall never hear thee; May thy soul with pleasure shine Lasting as the gloom of mine.
Side 6 - Like the sun, thy presence glowing, Clothes the meanest things in light; And when thou, like him, art going, Loveliest objects fade in night. All things looked so bright about thee, That they nothing seem without thee; By that pure and lucid mind Earthly things were too, refined. Go, thou vision, wildly gleaming, Softly on my soul that fell; Go, for me no longer beaming — Hope and Beauty! fare ye well!

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