There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore; -- Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; -- No more shall grief of mine the season wrong: I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday; -- Thou child of joy, Shout round me; let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd boy! Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fullness of your bliss, I feel -- I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While [Earth]1 herself is adorning This sweet May morning; And the children are [pulling]2 On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm: -- I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! -- But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have look'd upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: [Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.]3 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learn'd art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind, -- Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; To whom the grave Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight Of day or the warm light, A place of thought where we in waiting lie; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live; That Nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! [The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest, Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: -- Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections,]3 Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our [day]4, Are yet [a]5 master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, [Nor man nor boy,]3 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither; Can in a moment travel thither -- [And see the children sport upon the shore,]3 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy, Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death; In years that bring the philosophic mind. And, O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forbode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquish'd one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway: I love the brooks which down their channels fret Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
The Long Journey
by (Henry) Walford Davies, Sir (1869 - 1941)
1. Our birth is but a sleep  [sung text not yet checked]
Authorship:
- by William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850), "Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood"
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View original text (without footnotes)1 Finzi: "the Earth"
2 Finzi: "culling"
3 omitted by Dyson.
4 Dyson: "days"
5 Dyson: "the"
Researcher for this page: Ahmed E. Ismail
2. Infant Joy  [sung text not yet checked]
"I have no name: I am but two days old." What shall I call thee? "I happy am, Joy is my name." Sweet joy befall thee! Pretty Joy! Sweet Joy, but two days old. Sweet Joy I call thee: Thou dost smile, I sing the while, Sweet joy befall thee!
Authorship:
- by William Blake (1757 - 1827), "Infant Joy", appears in Songs of Innocence and Experience, in Songs of Innocence, no. 17, first published 1789
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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- RUS Russian (Русский) [singable] (Dmitri Nikolaevich Smirnov) , "Дитя-радость", copyright ©, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
3. When childher plays  [sung text not yet checked]
Now the beauty of the thing when childher plays is The terrible wonderful length the days is. Up you jumps, and out in the sun, And you fancy the day will never be done ; And you're chasin' the bumbees huminin' so cross In the hot sweet air among the goss, Or gath'rin' blue-bells, or lookin' for eggs, Or peltin' the ducks with their yalla legs, Or a climbin' and nearly breakin' your skulls, Or a shoutin' for divilment after the gulls, Or a thinkin' of nothin', but down at the tide Singin' out for the happy you feel inside. That's the way with the kids, you know, And the years do come and the years do go, And when you look back it's all like a puff, Happy and over and short enough.
Authorship:
- by T. E. (Thomas Edward) Brown (1830 - 1897), no title, appears in Betsy Lee, A Fo'c's'le Yarn, first published 1873
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]4. Gaudeamus  [sung text not yet checked]
Come, no more of grief and dying! Sing the time too swiftly flying. Just an hour Youth's in flower, Give me roses to remember In the shadow of December. Fie on steeds with leaden paces! Winds shall bear us on our races, Speed, O speed, Wind, my steed, Beat the lightning for your master, Yet my Fancy shall fly faster. Give me music, give me rapture, Youth that's fled can none recapture; Not with thought Wisdom's bought. Out on pride and scorn and sadness! Give me laughter, give me gladness. Sweetest Earth, I love and love thee, Seas about thee, skies above thee, Sun and storms, Hues and forms Of the clouds with floating shadows On thy mountains and thy meadows. Earth, there's none that can enslave thee, Not thy lords it is that have thee; Not for gold Art thou sold, But thy lovers at their pleasure Take thy beauty and thy treasure. While sweet fancies meet me singing, While the April blood is springing In my breast, While a jest And my youth thou yet must leave me, Fortune, 'tis not thou canst grieve me. When at length the grasses cover Me, the world's unwearied lover, If regret Haunt me yet, It shall be for joys untasted, Nature lent and folly wasted. Youth and jests and summer weather, Goods that kings and clowns together Waste or use As they choose, These, the best, we miss pursuing Sullen shades that mock our wooing. Feigning Age will not delay it-- When the reckoning comes we'll pay it, Own our mirth Has been worth All the forfeit light or heavy Wintry Time and Fortune levy. Feigning grief will not escape it, What though ne'er so well you ape it-- Age and care All must share, All alike must pay hereafter, Some for sighs and some for laughter. Know, ye sons of Melancholy, To be young and wise is folly. 'Tis the weak Fear to wreak On this clay of life their fancies, Shaping battles, shaping dances. While ye scorn our names unspoken, Roses dead and garlands broken, O ye wise, We arise, Out of failures, dreams, disasters, We arise to be your masters.
Authorship:
- by Margaret Louisa Woods (1856 - 1945), "Gaudeamus Igitur"
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]5. Song of the road
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6. Manhood  [sung text not yet checked]
IX
"Oh, our manhood's prime vigour! No spirit feels waste,
Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced.
Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock,
The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock
Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear,
And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair.
And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine,
And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine,
And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell
That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well.
How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ
All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!
Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst guard
When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward?
Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung
The low song of the nearly-departed, and hear her faint tongue
Joining in while it could to the witness, "Let one more attest,
I have lived, seen God's hand, thro' a life-time, and all was for best?"
Then they sung through their tears in strong triumph, not much, but the rest.
And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew
Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true:
And the friends of thy boyhood -- that boyhood of wonder and hope,
Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope, --
Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is thine;
And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine!
On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throe
That, a-work in the rock, helps its labour and lets the gold go)
High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them, -- all
Brought to blaze on the head of one creature -- King Saul!"
[ ... ]
Authorship:
- by Robert Browning (1812 - 1889), "Saul", appears in Men and Women
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]7. Sweet content  [sung text not yet checked]
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers: O sweet content! Art thou rich yet is thy mind perplexed, O punishment. Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed, To add to golden numbers, golden numbers. O sweet content, etc. [Work]1 work apace, apace, apace; Honest labor bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny, hey nonny: hey nonny, nonny. Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring, O sweet content! Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears, O punishment. Then he [that]2 patiently wants, burden bears, No burden bears, but is a King, a King. O sweet content, etc.
Authorship:
- by Thomas Dekker (c1572 - 1632), "The song", appears in The Pleasant Comoedy of Patient Grissill, first published 1603
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View original text (without footnotes)Confirmed with Henry Chettle and Thomas Dekker, Patient Grissil, London, 1632. Modernized spelling.
1 Beach: "Then work"2 Beach: "who"
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
8. Turn back, my soul
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9. Tap o' the hill
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10. Land ho, land!
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11. 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:
- by Thomas Campion (1567 - 1620)
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]12. Epilogue: Eternity  [sung text not yet checked]
O Years! and age! farewell: Behold, I go Where I do know Infinity to dwell. And these mine eyes shall see All times, how they Are lost i' th' sea Of vast eternity. Where never moon shall sway The stars; but she And night shall be Drown'd in one endless day.
Authorship:
- by Robert Herrick (1591 - 1674)
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]