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Help and advice for LYRICS by Jefferson Monkman, 1885: Part 3: To haven, to home My harp is all the world to me The love that loves alway

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LYRICS by Jefferson Monkman, 1885: Part 3: To haven, to home My harp is all the world to me The love that loves alway


TO HAVEN, TO HOME.

My heart is as light as the spray on the wave,
   As light as the wild bird from durance just free;
For across the wild ocean whose hoarse waters rave.
The good ship hath sped under white wings so brave
   To haven, to home, bringing Jack back to me.

Yesternight I was dreaming of tempests and gales,
   Of shipwreck and danger in far away sea;
And I saw in the wan light a ship's tattered sails,
O'er the roar of the main came a crew's dying wails,
   They came as a requiem of one dear to me.

The storm, wild with fury, dismasted the barque--
   At the helm was my Jack, no mistake it was he !
I awoke with a tremor-what sound was that? Hark !
The morning was bright, and the up-singing lark
   Sang forth a sweet hymn in the heavens so free.

I knew by the tones of a voice I loved true,
   Not correct was my dream in the slightest degree ;
For Jack in his arms was encircling his Sue,
Recounting the strength of his ship and brave crew,
   And the perils encountered in crossing the sea.

My heart is as light as the spray on the wave,
   As light as the wild bird from durance just free ;
For across the wild ocean whose hoarse waters rave,
The good ship bath sped under white wings, so brave
   To haven, to home, bringing Jack back to me.


MY HARP IS ALL THE WORLD TO ME.

My harp is all the wealth I own ;
   My roof the gilded sky ;
The song for me -a monarch's crown
   I'd cease without a sigh ;
I wander through each sylvan grove,
   Low vespers chant o'er every lea-
While roses shed their perfumed love
   To hear my harp's sweet melodie

My love ! my light ! my soul is soil"!
   Encamped by greenwood tree
I chant my lay the birds among ;
   My harp is all the world to me !
I care not for the jewelled throng-
   My heart yearns for the vale,
For there my harp in gentle song
   Sighs o'er the scented gale ;

And when the stars are lit above,
   They seem to echo back to me,
The hymns they hear me chant of love
   My harp, and then my soul is free !
My love ! my light ! my soul is song'
   Encamped by greenwood tree
I chant my lay the birds among ;
   My harp is all the world to me


"THE LOVE THAT LOVES ALWAY."

Fair Helen was her hamlet's pride,
   A peasant girl of low degree ;
Whose cot stood on the mountain side,
   O'erhung by many a pinewood tree.

At mirthful morn 'twas Helen's voice,
   In tones of gladness fill'd the plain ;
Her blithsome heart must needs rejoice
   In melodie of tuneful strain.

At eventide when she had wrought
   The toil of the departed hours,
Her footsteps in the meadows sought
   The sunset and the simple flowers.

The primrose pale, and heather bell,
   Encanopied by beechen shade,
Where tenants of the hawthorn dell,
   Where Helen and her lover strayed.

Fair Helen many charms possessed
   When Robin's whispered notes were nigh ;
For he in her sweet virgin breast
   Was first to raise love's tender sigh.

And Robin in his turn was caught ;
   (To peers and peasants 'tis the same.)
For Cupid's forge with busy fraught
   Dazed Robin by its dazzling flame.

But Fate, unkind to love's young dream,
   Bade Robin cross the western main ;
While Helen by her favourite stream,
   Prayed for his safe return again.

Her lover's absence numbered years,
   And several now had passed,
Since Helen sad with grief and tears,
   Had heard from Robin last.

Poor Helen knew not Robin's fate,
   Misfortune bore him down ;
Stone walls were in a distant state
   For innocence a crown.

Fair Helen then, a drooping flower,
   Lost hope and heart as well;
And now beyond all human power,
   Her grace lies in the dell.

Soon Robin, with a soul of fear,
   Re-sought his native plain ;
His hopes were answered by a tear,
   For grief had Helen slain.

He made unto the trysting dell,
   He prayed, he wooed his doom ;
God's mercy soothed the stupor spell-
   He sleeps in Helen's tomb.


Poems by Thomas Jefferson Monkman (1885)
Scanned by Graham Metcalf ©2003
OCRd and checked by Colin Hinson ©2003