A set of six songs

Farewell, farewell! The voice you hear
Has left its last soft tone with you;
Its next must join the seaward cheer
And shout amid the shouting crew.

The accents which I scarce could form
Beneath your frown's controlling check
Must give the word above the storm
To cut the mast and clear the wreck.

The timid eye I dar'd not raise,
The hand that shook when press'd to thine,
Must point the guns upon the chase,
Must bid the deadly cutlass shine.

To all I love, or hope, or fear,
Honor or own, a long adieu;
To all that life has soft and dear
Farewell, save memory of you.

Merry it is in the good greenwood,
When the mavis and merle are singing,
When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry,
And the hunter's horn is ringing.

"O Alice Brand, my native land
Is lost for love of you;
And we must hold by wood aud wold,
As outlaws wont to do.

"O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright
And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue,
That on the night of our luckless flight
Thy brother bold I slew.

"Now must I teach to hew the beech
The hand that held the glaive,
For leaves to spread our lowly bed,
And stakes to fence our cave.

"And for vest of pall, thy fingers small,
That wont on harp to stray,
A cloak must shear from the slaughter'd deer,
To keep the cold away.

"Richard! if my brother died,
'Twas but a fatal chance;
For darkling was the battle tried,
And fortune sped the lance.

"If pall and vair no more I wear,
Nor thou the crimson sheen,
As warm, we'll say, is the russet grey,
As gay the forest-green.

"And, Richard, if our lot be hard,
And lost thy native land,
Still Alice has her own Richard,
And he his Alice Brand. "

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood,
So blithe Lady Alice is singing;
On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side
Lord Richard's axe is ringing.

Up spoke the moody Elfin King,
Who won'd within the hill
Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd church
His voice was ghostly shrill.

"Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,
Our moonlight circle's screen?
Or who comes here to chase the deer,
Beloved of our Elfin Queen?
Or who may dare on wold to wear
The fairies' fatal green?

"Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,
For thou wert christen'd man;
For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,
For mutter'd word or ban.

"Lay on him the curse of the wither'd heart,
The curse of the sleepless eye;
Till he wish and pray that his life would part,
Nor yet find leave to die."

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood,
Though the birds have still'd their singing;
The evening blaze doth Alice raise,
And Richard is fagots bringing.

Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf,
Before Lord Richard stands
And, as he cross'd and bless'd himself,
"I fear not sign," quoth the grisly elf,
"That is made with bloody hands."

But out then spoke she, Alice Brand,
That woman, void of fear, --
"And if there's blood upon his hand,
'Tis but the blood of deer."

"Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood!
It cleaves unto his hand
The stain of thine own kindly blood,
The blood of Ethert Brand."

Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand,
And made the holy sign, --
"And if there's blood on Richard's hand
A spotless hand is mine."

"And I conjure thee, Demon elf
By Him whom Demons fear,
To show us whence thou art thyself,
And what thine errand here?"

"'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in Fairy-land,
When fairy birds are singing,
When the court doth ride by their monarch's side
With bit and bridle ringing:

"And gaily shines the Fairy-land --
But all is glistening show,
Like the idle gleam that December's beam
Can dart on ice and snow.

"And fading, like that varied gleam,
Is our inconstant shape,
Who now like knight and lady seem,
And now like dwarf and ape.

"It was between the night and day,
When the Fairy King has power
That I sunk down in a sinful fray,
And, 'twixt life and death,was snatch'd away
To the joyless Elfin bower.

"But wist I of a woman bold
Who thrice my brow durst sign,
I might regain my mortal mold,
As fair a form as thine."

She cross'd him once, she cross'd him twice,
That lady was so brave
The fouler grew his goblin hue,
The darker grew the cave.

She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold
He rose beneath her hand
The fairest knight on Scottish mold,
Her brother, Ethert Brand!

Merry it is in good greenwood
When the mavis and merle are singing,
But merrier were they in Dunfermline grey,
When all the bells were ringing.

Two solemn Voices in a funeral strain,
Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain
    Meet in the sky;
"Thou art gone hence!" one sang; "Our light is flown,
Our beautiful, that seem'd too much our own, 
    Ever to die!

"Thou art gone hence! -- our joyous hills among 
Never again to pour thy soul in song,
    When spring-flowers rise! 
Never the friend's familiar step to meet 
With loving langhter, and the welcome sweet
    Of thy glad eyes."

Thou art gone home, gone home!" then, high and clear,
Warbled that other Voice: "Thou hast no tear
    Again to shed.
Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain,
Never, weigh'd down by Memory's clouds, again 
    To bow thy head.

"Thou art gone home! oh! early crown'd and blest!
Where could the love of that deep heart find rest 
    With aught below! 
Thou must have seen rich dream hy dream decay,
All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away -- 
    Thrice blest to go!"

Yet sigh'd again that breeze-like Voice of grief -- 
"Thou art gone hence! alas! that aught so brief
    So loved should he! 
Thou tak'st our summer hence! -- the flower, the tone,
The music of our being, all in one,
    Depart with thee! 

"Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled! 
Caust thou be of the dead, the awful dead! 
    The dark unknown?
Yes! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall,
Never again to light up hearth or hall,
    Thy smile is gone!"

"Home! home!" once more th' exulting voice arose:
"Thou art gone home! from that divine repose
    Never to roam!
Never to say farewell, to weep in vain,
To read of change in eyes beloved, again -- 
    Thou art gone home! 

"By the bright waters now thy lot is cast, --
Joy for thee, happy friend! thy bark hath past 
    The rough sea's foam!
Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still'd, --
Home! home! -- thy peace is won, thy heart is fill'd.
    -- Thou art gone home!" 

My dear and only Love, I pray
  That little world of thee
Be govern'd by no other sway
  Than purest monarchy;
For if confusion have a part
  (Which virtuous souls abhor),
And hold a synod in thine heart,
  I'll never love thee more.
 
Like Alexander I will reign,
  And I will reign alone;
My thoughts did evermore disdain
  A rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate too much,
  Or his deserts are small,
That dares not put it to the touch,
  To gain or lose it all.
 
And in the empire of thine heart,
  Where I should solely be,
If others do pretend a part
  Or dare to vie with me,
Or if Committees thou erect,
  And go on such a score,
I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect,
  And never love thee more.
 
But if thou wilt prove faithful then,
  And constant of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen
  And famous by my sword;
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
  Was never heard before;
I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,
  And love thee more and more.

What hid'st thou in thy treasure caves and cells,
Thou [hollow]1 sounding and mysterious main!
Pale glist'ning pearls and rainbow coloured shells,
Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain.
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea,
We ask not, we ask not such from thee.
[Yet]2 more, the billows and the depths have more,
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast;
They hear not how the booming waters roar;
The battle thunders wil not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave;
Give back, give back the true and brave.
Dark [flow]3 thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flow'ry crown.
Yet must thou hear a voice: restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!
Restore, retore the dead, thou sea!

Eternal hope
 . . . . . . . . . .

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