Musical Works -Op. 22.

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  Op. 22, Joan of Arc in prison : scena.

  Dedication: Written and composed for Miss Dolby

Words by: Henry F. Chorley

'Tis midnight dark, all lonely in her sorrow,
The warrior-maiden in her dungeon lies;
Not only visions of the fearful morrow
Trac'd as a lightning gleam before her eyes,
But dreams come round her
But dreams come round her
But dreams come round her of a day more golden,
Fond memories of a happy peasant-time
Sweet as the melody of ballad olden,
The tune of birds, the cheerful hamlet chime
The tune of birds, the cheerful hamlet chime.

"O mine own fountain in the glade upspringing,
For ever cool beneath the tender leaves,
Amid the murmur of thy waters ringing,
The Fairies talk'd with me on summer eves;
No more no more to bathe my burning brow
No more no more to bathe my burning brow
How much I love thee now! How much I love thee now!
How much I love the now! How much I love thee now!
How much I love thee now! How much I love thee now!
How much, how much I love thee now!

No more of dreaming in the leafy forest
The scaffold and the pile are set for me!
No more kind smiles, when my heart needs them sorest
The mocking crowd are all I now shall see!
Can I not 'scape, and hide me?
Can I not 'scape, and hide me?
Will no eye pity my youth? no ear receive my cry?
Hark! I am heard! Hark! I am heard!
Hark! mine angel voices, near me,
With seraph clarions through the darkness cheer me! through the darkness cheer me!
They bid me once again the armour wear
Of faith immortal, won by lowly prayer:
And I will triumph And I will triumph
And I will triumph o'er my great despair,
And lift mine eyes to Heav'n, and nobly die!
Thou gavest me the battle sword
By which the foe did fall;
Thou gavest me the crown, O Lord!
To crown my King withal!
And now thou givest me the chain my feeble frame up on,
Because the mortal was too vain of deeds
Thine hand had done!
But Thou wilt give me, soon, the palm of triumph o'er despair,
That, safe in Thine eternal calm,
Thy glorious Angels wear!
Wilt stand beside me in the fire,
Though keen its torture be;
And, when the curling flames aspire,
Take up my soul to Thee!
Wilt stand beside me in the fire,
Though keen its torture be;
And, when the curling flames aspire,
Take up my soul to Thee!
Take up my soul to Thee! my soul to Thee!
when the curling flames aspire,
Take up my soul to Thee!
when the curling flames aspire,
Take up my soul my soul to Thee!
And, when the curling flames aspire,
Take up my soul to Thee!"

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