lirik lagu ghizela rowe - ode to melancholy - thomas hood
come, let us set our careful br~~sts
like philomel, against the th~rn
to aggravate the inward grief
that makes her accents so forlorn;
the world has many cruel points
whereby our bosoms have been torn
and there are dainty themes of grief
in sadness to outlast the morn, ~
true honor’s dearth, affection’s death
neglectful pride, and cankering scorn
with all the piteous tales that tears
have water’d since thе world was born
the world! ~ it is a wilderness
whеre tears are hung on every tree;
for thus my gloomy phantasy
makes all things weep with me!
come let us sit and watch the sky
and fancy clouds, where no clouds be;
grief is enough to blot the eye
and make heaven black with misery
why should birds sing such merry notes
unless they were more blest than we?
no sorrow ever chokes their throats
except sweet nightingale; for she
was born to pain our hearts the more
with her sad melody
why shines the sun, except that he
makes gloomy nooks for grief to hide
and pensive shades for melancholy
when all the earth is bright beside?
let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave
mirth shall not win us back again
whilst man is made of his own grave
and fairest clouds but gilded rain!
i saw my mother in her shroud
her cheek was cold and very pale;
and ever since i’ve look’d on all
as creatures doom’d to fail!
why do buds ope except to die?
ay, let us watch the roses wither
and think of our loves’ cheeks;
and oh! how quickly time doth fly
to bring death’s winter hither!
minutes, hours, days, and weeks
months, years, and ages, shrink to nought;
an age past is but a thought!
ay, let us think of him awhile
that, with a coffin for a boat
rows daily o’er the stygian moat
and for our table choose a tomb:
there’s dark enough in any skull
to charge with black a raven plume;
and for the saddest funeral thoughts
a winding~sheet hath ample room
where death, with his keen~pointed style
hath writ the common doom
how wide the yew~tree spreads its gloom
and o’er the dead lets fall its dew
as if in tears it wept for them
the many human families
that sleep around its stem!
how cold the dead have made these stones
with natural drops kept ever wet!
lo! here the best ~ the worst ~ the world
doth now remember or forget
are in one common ruin hurl’d
and love and hate are calmly met;
the loveliest eyes that ever shone
the fairest hands, and locks of jet
is’t not enough to vex our souls
and fill our eyes, that we have set
our love upon a rose’s leaf
our hearts upon a violet?
blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet;
and sometimes at their swift decay
beforehand we must fret
the roses bud and bloom, again;
but love may haunt the grave of love
and watch the mould in vain
o clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine
and do not take my tears amiss;
for tears must flow to wash away
a thought that shows so stern as this:
forgive, if somewhile i forget
in woe to come, the present bliss;
as frighted proserpine let fall
her flowers at the sight of dis
ev’n so the dark and bright will kiss
the sunniest things throw sternest shade
and there is ev’n a happiness
that makes the heart afraid!
now let us with a spell invoke
the full~orb’d moon to grieve our eyes;
not bright, not bright, but, with a cloud
lapp’d all about her, let her rise
all pale and dim, as if from rest
the ghost of the late~buried sun
had crept into the skies
the moon! she is the source of sighs
the very face to make us sad;
if but to think in other times
the same calm quiet look she had
as if the world held nothing base
of vile and mean, of fierce and bad;
the same fair light that shone in streams
the fairy lamp that charmed the lad;
for so it is, with spent delights
she taunts men’s brains, and makes them mad
all things are touch’d with melancholy
born of the secret soul’s mistrust
to feel her fair ethereal wings
weigh’d down with vile degraded dust;
even the bright extremes of joy
bring on conclusions of disgust
like the sweet blossoms of the may
whose fragrance ends in must
o give her, then, her tribute just
her sighs and tears, and musings holy;
there is no music in the life
that sounds with idiot laughter solely;
there’s not a string attuned to mirth
but has its chord in melancholy
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