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Eight partsongs , opus 127
by Charles Villiers Stanford, Sir (1852 - 1924)
1. Plighted
Language: English
Authorship:
- by Mary Coleridge (1861 - 1907), appears in Poems, first published 1907
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2. Veneta  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
Wind and waters ring the bells That rang for them of high degree Trumpets are the sounding shells In the city under the sea. Where a Queen was wont to hide Her outwearied majesty, Swim the fishes open-eyed In the city under the sea. Many a street lies broad and fair, Many a palace fair and free, Neither a man nor woman there, In the city under the sea.
Authorship:
- by Mary Coleridge (1861 - 1907), "Veneta", appears in Poems, no. 99, first published 1907
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]3. When Mary thro' the garden went  [sung text checked 1 time]
Language: English
When Mary thro' the garden went, There was no sound of any bird, And yet, because the night was spent, The little grasses lightly stirred, The flowers awoke, the lilies heard. When Mary thro' the garden went, The dew lay still on flower and grass, The waving palms above her sent Their fragrance out as she did pass. No light upon [the]1 branches was. When Mary thro' the garden went, Her eyes, for weeping long, were dim. The grass beneath her footsteps bent, The solemn lilies, white and slim, These also stood and wept for Him. When Mary thro' the garden went, She sought, within the garden ground, One for Whom her heart was rent, One Who for her sake was bound, One Who sought and she was found.
Authorship:
- by Mary Coleridge (1861 - 1907), "When Mary thro' the garden went", appears in Poems, no. 70, first published 1907
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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- GER German (Deutsch) (Martin Stock) , "Als Maria durch den Garten ging", copyright © 2002, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
1 Stanford: "their"
Researcher for this page: Martin Stock
4. The haven  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
Where the gray bushes by the gray sea grow, Where the gray islands lie, Naked and bare to all the winds that blow, Under the dim gray sky -- The very flowers are gray, and dare not show The blue we know the little harebell by.
Authorship:
- by Mary Coleridge (1861 - 1907), "The haven", appears in Poems, no. 163, first published 1907
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]5. The Guest  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
There came a man across the moor, Fell and foul of face was he. He left the path by the cross-roads three, And stood in the shadow of the door. I asked him in to bed and board. I never hated any man so. He said he could not say me No. He sat in the seat of my own dear lord. "Now sit you by my side!" he said, "Else may I neither eat nor drink. You would not have me starve, I think." He ate the offerings of the dead. "I'll light you to your bed," quoth I. "My bed is yours -- but light the way!" I might not turn aside nor stay; I showed him where we twain did lie. The cock was trumpeting the morn. He said: "Sweet love, a long farewell! You have kissed a citizen of Hell, And a soul was doomed when you were born. "Mourn, mourn no longer for your dear! Him may you never meet above. The gifts that Love hath given to Love, Love gives away again to Fear."
Authorship:
- by Mary Coleridge (1861 - 1907), "Master and Guest", appears in Poems, no. 20, first published 1907
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]6. Larghetto  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
Grant me but a day, love, But a day, Ere I give my heart, My heart away, Ere I say the word I'll ne'er unsay. Is it earnest with me? Is it play? Did the world in arms Cry to me, "Stay!" Not a moment then Would I delay. Yet, for very love, I say thee nay. Ere I give my heart, My heart away, Grant me but a day, love, But a day!
Authorship:
- by Mary Coleridge (1861 - 1907), "Larghetto", appears in Poems, no. 2, first published 1907
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]7. Wilderspin  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
In the little red house by the river, When the short night fell, Beside his web sat the weaver, Weaving a twisted spell. Mary and the Saints deliver My soul from the nethermost Hell! In the little red house by the rushes It grew not dark at all, For day dawned over the bushes Before the night could fall. Where now a torrent rushes, The brook ran thin and small. In the little red house a chamber Was set with jewels fair; There did a vine clamber Along the clambering stair, And grapes that shone like amber Hung at the windows there. Will the loom not cease whirring? Will the house never be still? Is never a horseman stirring Out and about on the hill? Was it the cat purring? Did some one knock at the sill? To the little red house a rider Was bound to come that night. A cup of sheeny cider Stood ready for his delight. And like a great black spider, The weaver watched on the right. To the little red house by the river I came when the short night fell. I broke the web for ever, I broke my heart as well. Michael and the Saints deliver My soul from the nethermost Hell!
Authorship:
- by Mary Coleridge (1861 - 1907), "Wilderspin", appears in Poems, no. 65, first published 1907
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]8. To a Tree  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
Thou art the sun, and the wind, and the driving shower. Thou hast worn the snow, and clothed thyselt in her flower: Lo, there is living in thee the ancient Light! The sons of the morning sang Hosanna at thy creation. Old thou art -- and young -- as an ever-enduring nation. Thou art a thousand shapes of the day and a thousand shapes of the night! Thou that shadowest ever a bounded circlet of earth, Who shall sing thy end that sang thy wonderful birth? Haply the fire that was once thy friend shall turn to thy foe, Fall on thee, lightning swift, as the gleam of a sword and the flash, Rend thy cherishing bark till it burst in twain with a crash, Scorch the leaves of thy crown and lay thee low! Solemn sentinel, leaving never thy chosen post, Haply the waves shall carry thee, wind-blown and tempest-tost, No more a nest of the birds, but a home for wandering men, Merchants, warriors, mighty captains of them that roam, Thou shalt sink, as they sink, to the stillness under the foam, Fishes, silent and swift, glide in thy branches then! Haply thou shalt be made the sails of a grinding mill, Thou shalt rejoice in the sun and the wind be thy playfellow still, Whirling and whirling to change into bread the golden corn! Haply of thee shall be made at the last a quivering flame; That shall return in light, in the glory of light that came, Fire shall befriend thee yet, O marvellous child of the morn!
Authorship:
- by Mary Coleridge (1861 - 1907), "Lines to a tree", appears in Poems, no. 77, first published 1907
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]