Born in yon blaze of orient sky,
Sweet May! thy radiant form unfold;
Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye,
And wave thy shadowy locks of gold
And wave thy shadowy locks of gold.
For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow
For thee descends the sunny shower;
The rills in softer murmurs flow,
And brighter blossoms gem the bower;
The rills in softer murmurs flow,
And brighter blossoms, And brighter blossoms,
And brighter blossoms gem the bower!
Light graces decked in flowery wreaths
And tiptoe joys their hands combine;
And Love his sweet contagion breathes
And, laughing dances round thy shrine,
And, laughing dances round thy shrine.
Warm with new life, the glittering throng
On quiv'ring fin and rustling
An Italian Song.
Dedication: Dedicated to Miss Birch
Words by: S. Rogers, Esquire
Dear is my little native vale,
The ring dove builds and murmurs there,
Close by my cot she tells her tale,
To ev'ry passing villager,
To ev'ry passing villager.
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts, and shells his nuts,
at liberty and shells his nuts,
and shells his nuts at liberty.
In orange groves and myrtle bow'rs,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy footed hours,
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
With my loved lute's romantic sound
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
Or crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race
that win the race at eve,
For those that win the race,
that win the race at eve.
The shepherd's horn, at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent greenwood shade;
These simple joys that never fail,
Shall bind me my native vale;
These simple joys, these simple joys that never fail,
Shall bind me, shall bind me to my native vale.
Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,
Lonely and lost to light for evermore,
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,
Then trembles in to silence as before
Then trembles into silence as before.
There in its centre a sepulchral lamp
Burns the slow flame, eternal but unseen
Which not the dark ness of despair can damp
Though vain its ray as it had never been,
Though vain its ray as it had never been.
Remember me Oh! pass not thou my grave
Without one thought whose relics there recline;
The only pang my bosom dare not brave
Must be to find forget fulness in thine,
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine.
My fondest faintest latest accents hear;
Grief for the Dead not virtue can reprove;
Then give me all I ever ask'd a tear,
The first last sole reward of so much love
The first last sole reward of so much love.
The Violet.
Dedication: Dedicated to Miss Masson
Poetry by: L.E.L.
Violets! deep blue Violets!
April's loveliest coronets!
There are no flowers grown in the vale,
Kiss'd by the dew, woo'd by the gale,
None by the dew of the twilight wet,
So sweet as the deep blue Violet!
I do remember how sweet a breath
Came with the azure light of a wreath
That hung round the wild harp's golden chords,
Which rang to my dark eyed lover's words.
I have seen that dear harp rolled
With gems of the East and bands of gold;
But it never was sweeter than when set
With leaves of the deep blue Violet
With leaves of the deep blue Violet
And when the grave shall open for me,
I care not how soon that time may be,
Never a rose shall grow on that tomb,
It breathes too much of hope and bloom;
But there be that flower's meek regret,
The bending and deep blue Violet!
The deep blue Violet!
Poetry by: Sir E. Bulwer Lytton (from "The Pilgrims of the Rhine")
By the glow-worm's lamp in the dewy brake;
By the gossamer's airy net;
By the shifting skin of the faithless snake;
Oh teach me to forget;
By the shifting skin of the faithless snake;
Oh teach me to forget!
For none, ah none, For none, ah none,
Can teach so well that human spell
as Thou, false one!
Can teach so well that human spell
as Thou, as thou, as thou, false one!
By the fairy dance on the green sward smooth;
By the winds of the gentle west;
By the loving stars, when their soft looks soothe
The waves on their mother's breast;
By the loving stars, when their soft looks soothe
The waves on their mother's breast;
Teach me thy lore! Teach me thy lore!
By which, like withered flowers,
By which like withered flowers,
The leaves, the leaves of buried hours
Blossom no more!
The leaves, the leaves of buried hours
Blossom no more, no more, no more!
By the tent in the violet's bell;
By the may on the scented bough;
By the lone green isle where my sisters dwell;
And thine own forgotten vow:
By the lone green isle where my sisters dwell;
And thine own forgotten vow:
Teach me to live; Teach me to live!
Nor turn with thoughts that pine
for love so false as thine!
Nor turn with thoughts that pine
for love so false as thine!
Teach me thy lore, Teach me thy lore,
And one, and one thou lov'st no more
will bless thee, will bless thee, and forgive!
MUSICAL REVIEW…Six Songs for Voice and Piano. By Ed. H. Lindsay Sloper. — Wessell. No. 1. "The Dying Girl and her Mother;" 2. " Song to May ;" 3. An Italian song, " Dear is my little native vale ;" 4. Medora, " Deep in my soul," from the "Corsair;" 5. "The Violet;" 6. "The Fairy's Reproach." Mr. Sloper has, we think, in two cases out of three been very unfortunate in his selection of words, for, with only two exceptions, the poetry of his six songs, however meritorious, is by no means of a lyrical character, and affords no fair scope for musical expression or vocal effect. This has had a decided influence upon the composer's imagination, for he has been much less successful in the other four songs than in the two we have excepted, which are the one in B minor from Lord Byron's " Corsair," and the one in F sharp minor, the last of the set, both of which we like very much, the latter particularly— a most plaintive melody, charmingly accompanied. This is the song in which Miss Dolby gained for the composer and herself the compliment of a decided encore when she sang it, transposed to E minor, at Mr. Sloper's soirée musicale this season. (Morning Post, Monday, 10 May 1847)
Op. 8