Six Canzonets

There be none of Beauty's daughters
  With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
  Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The [charmèd]1 ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving
  Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving
  As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

[ ... ]

They name thee before me,
    A knell to mine ear; 
A shudder comes o'er me --
    Why wert thou so dear? 
They know not I knew thee,
    Who knew thee too well:-- 
Long, long shall I rue thee,
    Too deeply to tell.

'Adieu, adieu! my native shore
    Fades o'er the waters blue; 
The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
    And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea
    We follow in his flight; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
    My native Land -- Good Night!

'A few short hours and He will rise
    To give the Morrow birth; 
And I shall hail the main and skies,
    But not my mother Earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall,
    Its hearth is desolate; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
    My dog howls at the gate.

'Come hither, hither, my little page!
    Why dost thou weep and wail? 
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,
    Or tremble at the gale? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
    Our ship is swift and strong, 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
    More merrily along.' --

'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
    I fear not wave nor wind; 
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
    Am sorrowful in mind; 
For I have from my father gone,
    A mother whom I love, 
And have no friend, save these alone,
    But thee -- and one above.

'My father bless'd be fervently,
    Yet did not much complain; 
But sorely will my mother sigh
    Till I come back again.' -- 
'Enough, enough, my little lad!
    Such tears become thine eye; 
If I thy guileless bosom had,
    Mine own would not be dry. --

'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
    Why dost thou look so pale? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman?
    Or shiver at the gale?'-- 
'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
    Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; 
But thinking on an absent wife
    Will blanch a faithful cheek.

'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
    Along the bordering lake, 
And when they on their father call,
    What answer shall she make?'-- 
'Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
    Thy grief let none gainsay; 
But I, who am of lighter mood,
    Will laugh to flee away.

'For who would trust the seeming sighs
    Of wife or paramour? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes
    We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
    Nor perils gathering near; 
My greatest grief is that I leave
    No thing that claims a tear.

'And now I'm in the world alone,
    Upon the wide, wide sea; 
But why should I for others groan,
    When none will sigh for me? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
    Till fed by stranger hands; 
But long ere I come back again
    He'd tear me where he stands.

'With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
    Athwart the foaming brine; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
    So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
    And when you fail my sight, 
Welcome ye deserts, and ye caves!
    My native land -- Good Night!'

[ ... ]

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
  The smile that sorrow fain would wear
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath
  Like roses, roses o'er a sepulchre.
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
  Dispel awhile the sense of ill:
Though pleasure fires the madd'ning soul,
  The heart -- the heart is lonely still!

On many a lone and lovely night
  It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky;
For then I deem'd the heavenly light
  Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye:
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,
  When sailing o'er the Ægean wave,
"Now Thyrza gazes on that moon " ---
  Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave !

[ ... ]