Song. I will weave for thee a wreath, love
I will weave for thee a wreath, love,
Of roses bright and fair;
I will breathe for thee a sigh, love,
As I twine it mid thy hair.
Thy cheek is softly blushing, love,
The rose has tinged thy brow,
The sigh has it revealed, love,
All I may not avow?
Ah! pardon the presumption, love,
Of one who owns thy spell;
I may not linger near thee, love,
Farewell!—sweet maid—farewell!
poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth
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Song. The Farewell
Bid me sigh it in thine ear,
I may scarce its utterance tell;
Bid me hide it in a tear,
'Tis the word—farewell! farewell!
When away you may forget
O'er the parting scene to dwell,
I will treasure fondly yet
The sad word—farewell! farewell!
Still its knell is on mine ear,
Still do sighs my bosom swell,
Still unbidden flows the tear
O'er that word—farewell! farewell!
Go—forget—when all is past,
Love which then may lose its spell,
Yet a love like mine must last
Beyond the word—farewell! farewell!
poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth
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To the Memory of
I once could hope—alas! no more
Her bright wings wave for me;
The sunlit hours of life are o'er,
I weep, dear love, for thee!
And in those tears—and in that sigh
Will fond remembrance dwell;
'Tis all remains when dear ones lie
Within death's darksome cell.
So young! so pure!—alas! that thou
In marble tomb should sleep!
And leave the weary heart and brow
Thy vigils lone to keep.
And yet 'tis better thus than feel
The crushed heart's mad despair;
Alas! no balm those woes may heal
Love—death—have planted there.
Farewell! farewell! my buried love,
No pangs may wring thy heart;
Enough for me to gaze above,
To meet where none may part!
poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth
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To Thought
I may not give to thee
One hour again;
The past is not for me,
It burns my brain.
Thy haunts are treasuries now
I may not see;
Dark cypress binds my brow,
The willow tree.
And yet I linger here,
With thee would stay;
Thy shrine! receive my tear,
My parting lay.
Time wings his flight along
O'er memory's glass;
Years given to mirth and song
Too quickly pass.
Few—few—how few my lot!
Like early flowers,
Which blow and are forgot
Mid summer bowers.
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poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth
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Bright and Beautiful Sea
Bright and beautiful sea! I love thee well—
In sunshine, oh bear me away;
On thy bosom I'll ride, when the salt waves swell
'Neath the light of the moon's pale ray.
Still softly, oh! softly cradle my head,
And my sleep shall be sweet with thee,
For the planets keep watch o'er the dreamer's bed
On the bright and beautiful sea.
Earth is not thine, with her selfish decrees,
With her toils and her fading flow'rs;—
But the blue sky above—the sun—and the breeze,
And the bright and the laughing hours.
Bright and beautiful sea! Oh! let me glide,
Forgetting the sorrows of earth—
For glad is the music of thy sparkling tide,
Thou sea, in thy billowy mirth!
Bright and beautiful sea! I love thee well—
In sunshine, oh bear me away;
On thy bosom I'll ride, when the salt waves swell
'Neath the light of the moon's pale ray.
poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth
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Farewell to Guernsey
Sarnia farewell! farewell thy rocky shore;
Far o'er the main I ne'er may see thee more;
Yet will I not regret thee—save thy flowers—
They well were worthy the immortal bowers
Which poets love to wreathe, and oft have sung.
Thine are the hues, which once o'er Eden flung
Their charm of fragrance—when our parents' gaze
First met in paradise—that holy maze
Of beauty and of love; thine island's pride
Is worthy of thee, thus with sea allied.
Thy roses bloom!—but where is the fair cheek?
The eye of eloquence in vain we seek
Mid Sarnia's daughters—and the graceful form
Dwells not with thee—thou isle begirt with storm!—
Save in thy gardens:—there the lily's grace,
Verbena's odour breathes—a hardy race—
The fuschia's bloom its pendant drops disclose,
While thousand plants with richest shading glow;
Camelias too their waxlike beauties spread,
Where orange-flowers their choicest pērfume shed;
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poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth
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Yesterday, To-day, and For Ever: Book IV. - The Creation of Angels and of Men
O tears, ye rivulets that flow profuse
Forth from the fountains of perennial love,
Love, sympathy, and sorrow, those pure springs
Welling in secret up from lower depths
Than couch beneath the everlasting hills:
Ye showers that from the cloud of mercy fall
In drops of tender grief, - you I invoke,
For in your gentleness there lies a spell
Mightier than arms or bolted chains of iron.
When floating by the reedy banks of Nile
A babe of more than human beauty wept,
Were not the innocent dews upon its cheeks
A link in God's great counsels? Who knows not
The loves of David and young Jonathan,
When in unwitting rivalry of hearts
The son of Jesse won a nobler wreath
Than garlands pluck'd in war and dipp'd in blood?
And haply she, who wash'd her Saviour's feet
With the soft silent rain of penitence,
And wiped them with her tangled tresses, gave
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poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth
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