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INDEX TO FIRST LINES.....

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LYRICS

OF THE

XIXTH CENTURY

SONG should breathe of scents and flowers;
Song should like a river flow;

Song should bring back scenes and hours
That we loved-ah! long ago.

Song from baser thoughts should win us;
Song should charm us out of woe;
Song should stir the heart within us,
Like a patriot's friendly blow.

Pains and pleasures, all man doeth,
War and peace, and right and wrong,

All things that the soul subdueth

Should be vanquish'd too by Song.

Song should spur the mind to duty,
Nerve the weak, and stir the strong;

Every deed of truth and beauty
Should be crown'd by starry Song.

BARRY CORNWALL.

Lyrics of the XIXth Century.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

1770-1850.

INVOCATION.

TO THE POWER OF SOUND.

Thy functions are ethereal,

As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind,
Organ of Vision! And a Spirit aèrial
Informs the cell of Hearing, dark and blind:
Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought
To enter than oracular cave :

Strict passage, through which sighs are brought,
And whispers for the heart, their slave;

And shrieks that revel in abuse

Of shivering flesh; and warbled air,
Whose piercing sweetness can unloose
The chains of frenzy or entice a smile

Into the ambush of despair;

Hozannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle ;
And requiems answer'd by the pulse that beats
Devoutly in life's last retreats.

The headlong streams and fountains

Serve thee! Invisible Spirit! with untired powers:
Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains,
They lull perchance ten thousand thousand flowers.
That roar, the prowling lion's "Here I am!"

How fearful to the desert wide!

That bleat, how tender! of the dam
Calling a straggler to her side.

Shout, cuckoo ! let the vernal soul
Go with thee to the frozen zone;

Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird! toll,
At the still hour to Mercy dear :

Mercy from her twilight throne

Listening to nun's faint throb of holy fear,
To sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea,
Or widow's cottage-lullaby.

Ye Voices! and ye Shadows

And Images of Voice, to hound and horn

From rocky steep and rock-bestudded meadows
Flung back and in the sky's blue caves reborn!
On with your pastime, till the church-tower bells
A greeting give of measured glee;

And milder Echoes from their cells
Repeat the bridal symphony.

Then, or far earlier, let us rove

Where mists are breaking up or gone,
And from aloft look down into a cove
Besprinkled with a careless quire :
Happy milkmaids, one by one
Scattering a ditty each to her desire,—

A liquid concert matchless by nice art,
A stream as if from one full heart.

Bless'd be the song that brightens

The blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's mirth! Unscorn'd the peasant's whistling breath that lightens

His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth!

For the tired slave Song lifts the languid oar,

And bids it aptly fall, with chime
That beautifies the fairest shore
And mitigates the harshest clime.
Yon pilgrims see !—in lagging file