Songs of Farewell

Song Cycle by Charles Hubert Hastings Parry, Sir (1848 - 1918)

Word count: 647

1. My soul, there is a country [sung text checked 1 time]

My soul, there is a country
  [Afar]1 beyond the stars,
Where stands a wingèd sentry
  All skilful in the wars:

There, above noise and danger
  Sweet Peace sits [crown'd]2 with smiles
And One, born in a manger
  Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious Friend
  And -- O my soul, awake! --
Did in pure love descend
  To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst [get]3 but thither,
  There grows the [flower]4 of Peace,
The Rose that cannot wither,
  Thy fortress and thy ease.

Leave then thy foolish ranges,
  For none can thee secure
But One who never changes,
  Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

Authorship

See other settings of this text.

Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • FRE French (Français) (Guy Laffaille) , "Paix", copyright © 2010, (re)printed on this website with kind permission

View original text (without footnotes)
1 Dyson, Parry: "Far"
2 Parry: "crowned"
3 Dyson: "go"
4 Parry: "flow'r"

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

2. I know my soul hath power [sung text checked 1 time]

I know my soul hath power to know all things,
Yet she is blind and ignorant in all:
I know I'm one of Nature's little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life's a pain and but a span;
I know my sense is mock'd in ev'rything;
And, to conclude, I know myself a Man,
Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.

Authorship

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

3. Never weather-beaten sail [sung text not yet checked]

Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore.
Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more,
Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest.

Ever blooming are the joys of Heaven's high Paradise.
Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the sun outshines whose beams the blessed only see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to thee!

Authorship

See other settings of this text.

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

4. There is an old belief [sung text checked 1 time]

There is an old belief,
That on some solemn shore,
Beyond the sphere of grief
Dear friends shall meet once more.

Beyond the sphere of Time 
And Sin and Fate's control,
Serene in changeless prime
Of body and of soul.

That creed I fain would keep
That hope I'll ne'er forgo,
Eternal be the sleep,
If not to waken so.

The text shown is a variant of another text.
It is based on

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

5. At the round earth's imagin'd corners [sung text not yet checked]

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow 
Your trumpets, angels, and arise 
From death, you numberless infinities 
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow
All whom war, death, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance hath slain; and you whose eyes 
Shall behold God and never taste death's woe,
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space,
For, if above all these my sins abound,
'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace,
When we are there. Here on this lowly ground,
Teach me how to repent, for that's as good
As if [Thou hadst]1 seal'd my pardon with Thy blood.

Authorship

See other settings of this text.

Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • FRE French (Français) (Guy Laffaille) , copyright © 2011, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
  • GER German (Deutsch) (Daniel Johannsen) , copyright © 2020, (re)printed on this website with kind permission

View original text (without footnotes)
1 Britten: "Thoud'st"

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

6. Lord, let me know mine end [sung text checked 1 time]

Lord, let me know mine end and the number of my days,
That I may be certified how long I have to live.
Thou hast made my days as it were a span long;
And mine age is as nothing in respect of Thee,
And verily, ev'ry man living is altogether vanity,
For man walketh in a vain shadow
And disquieteth himself in vain,
He heapeth up riches and cannot tell who shall gather them.
And now, Lord, what is my hope?
Truly my hope is even in Thee.
Deliver me from all mine offences
And make me not a rebuke to the foolish.
I became dumb and opened not my mouth
For it was Thy doing.
Take Thy plague away from me,
I am even consumed by means of Thy heavy hand.
When Thou with rebukes does chasten man for sin
Thou makest his beauty to consume away
Like as it were a moth fretting a garment;
Ev'ry man therefore is but vanity.
Hear my pray'r, O Lord
And with Thy ears consider my calling,
Hold not Thy peace at my tears!
For I am a stranger with Thee and a sojourner
As all my fathers were.
O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength before I go hence
And be no more seen.

Authorship

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]