by Anonymous / Unidentified Author
The generous distressed
Language: English
Blow, ye bleak winds, around my head And sooth my heart-corroding care. Flash round my brows, ye lightnings red, And blast the laurels planted there, But may the maid, where'er she be, Think not of my distress nor me. May all the traces of our love Be ever blotted from her mind. May from her breast my vows remove And no remembrance leave behind. But may the maid, where'er she be, Think not of my distress nor me. O! may I ne'er behold her more, For she has robb'd my soul of rest. Wisdom's assistance is too poor To calm the tempest in my breast. But may the maid, where'er she be, Think not of my distress nor me. Come death, O come, thou friendly sleep And with my sorrows lay me low, And should the gentle virgin weep, Nor sharp nor lasting be her woe. But may she think, where'er she be, No more of my distress nor me.
Authorship:
- by Anonymous / Unidentified Author [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Thomas Augustine Arne (1710 - 1778), "The generous distressed" [text verified 1 time]
Researcher for this page: John Glenn Paton [Guest Editor]
This text was added to the website: 2009-01-28
Line count: 24
Word count: 160