English

SCENE II

An Apartment . — M ARIANA and H AVERILLO .

HAVERILLO .

You need not fear him, cousin; for I'm sure
His heart's in the right place. He's wayward, doubtless,
And very often unintelligible,
But that is held to be a virtue now.
Critics and poets both (save I, who cling
To older canons) have discarded sense,
And meaning's at a discount. Our young spirits,
Who call themselves the masters of the age,
Are either robed in philosophic mist,

SCENE I

F IRMILIAN in his study reading .

Three hours of study — and what gain thereby?
My brain is reeling to attach the sense
Of what I read, as a drunk mariner
Who, stumbling o'er the bulwark, makes a clutch
At the wild incongruity of ropes,
And topples into mud!
Good Aristotle!
Forgive me if I lay thee henceforth by,
And seek some other teacher. Thou hast been,
For many hundred years, the bane and curse

PART FIFTH

I

Ascension morn! I hear the bells
Ring from the village far away:
How solemnly that music tells
The mystic story of the day!
Fainter and fainter come the chimes,
As though they melted into air,
Like voices of the ancient times,
Like echoes of ascending prayer!
So sweet and gentle sound they yet,
That I, who never bend the knee,

PART FOURTH

I

Queen Guenever, that lady high,
Loved Lancelot of the Lake,
And sweet Isolde was fain to die
For gentle Tristram's sake:
And aye their story charms the ear,
Despite the taint of shame,
And lordlings list, and ladies hear,
Nor ever think to blame.
Yet Arthur was the goodliest knight
Of all the Table Round,
And stout King Marc, in stubborn fight,

PART THIRD

I

That gaoler hath a savage look —
Methinks I spy a change;
For three long years, within this room,
That man has been my only groom,
And yet his voice is strange.
He brings me food, he smoothes my bed,
Obedient to my sign;
But still his moody eye falls down,
And will not answer mine.
I had the art, in former days,
To win, by short familiar phrase,

I

The sun is bright, the day is warm,
The breeze is blowing free —
Come, I will rouse me from my lair,
And look upon the sea.
'Tis clear and blue, with here and there
A little fleck of foam;
And yonder glides a stately ship,
Bound on her voyage home.
The fishers, on the scanty sward,
Spread out their nets to dry,
And whistle o'er their lazy task
In happy vacancy.

PART FIRST

I

Cold — cold! The wind howls fierce without;
It drives the sleet and snow;
With thundering hurl, the angry sea
Smites on the crags below.
Each wave that leaps against the rock
Makes this old prison reel —
God! cast it down upon my head,
And let me cease to feel!
Cold — cold! The brands are burning out,
The dying embers wane;

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES .

SPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT ROOM IN SOHO SQUARE, THURSDAY THE 20TH OF FEBRUARY , 1772.

ADVERTISEMENT The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius.

In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was adapted in a period of time equally short.

7

ANGEL

Now let the golden prison ope its gates,
Making sweet music, as each fold revolves
Upon its ready hinge. And ye, great powers,
Angels of Purgatory, receive from me
My charge, a precious soul, until the day,
When, from all bond and forfeiture released,
I shall reclaim it for the courts of light.

SOULS IN PURGATORY

1. Lord, Thou hast been our refuge: in every generation;

6

ANGEL

Thy judgment now is near, for we are come
Into the veiled presence of our God.

SOUL

I hear the voices that I left on earth.

ANGEL

It is the voice of friends around thy bed,
Who say the " Subvenite " with the priest.
Hither the echoes come; before the Throne
Stands the great Angel of the Agony,
The same who strengthen'd Him, what time He knelt