I praise the tender flower, That on a mournful day Bloomed in my garden bower And made the winter gay. Its loveliness contented My heart tormented. I praise the gentle maid Whose happy voice and smile To confidence betrayed My doleful heart awhile; And gave my spirit deploring Fresh wings for soaring. The maid for very fear Of love I durst not tell: The rose could never hear, Though I bespake her well: So in my song I bind them For all to find them.
Seven Unaccompanied Part Songs
Song Cycle by Gerald Finzi (1901 - 1956)
1. I praise the tender flower  [sung text checked 1 time]
Text Authorship:
- by Robert Seymour Bridges (1844 - 1930), no title, appears in Poems, first published 1884
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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- DUT Dutch (Nederlands) (Wim Reedijk) , "Ik prijs de bloem met tere steel", copyright ©, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
2. I have loved flowers that fade  [sung text not yet checked]
I have loved flowers that fade, Within whose magic tents Rich hues have marriage made With sweet unmemoried scents: A honeymoon delight, A joy of love at sight, That ages in an hour My song be like a flower!. I have loved airs that die Before their charm is writ Along a liquid sky Trembling to welcome it. Notes, that with pulse of fire Proclaim the spirit's desire, Then die, and are nowhere My song be like an air!. Die, song, die like a breath, And wither as a bloom; Fear not a flowery death, Dread not an airy tomb! Fly with delight, fly hence! 'Twas thine love's tender sense To feast; now on thy bier Beauty shall shed a tear.
Text Authorship:
- by Robert Seymour Bridges (1844 - 1930), no title, appears in Poems, first published 1879
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]3. My spirit sang all day  [sung text checked 1 time]
My spirit sang all day O my joy. Nothing my tongue could say, Only My joy! My heart an echo caught O my joy And spake, Tell me thy thought, Hide not thy joy. My eyes gan peer around, O my joy What beauty hast thou found? Shew us thy joy. My jealous ears grew whist; O my joy Music from heaven is't, Sent for our joy? She also came and heard; O my joy, What, said she, is this word? What is thy joy? And I replied, O see, O my joy, 'Tis thee, I cried, 'tis thee: Thou art my joy.
Text Authorship:
- by Robert Seymour Bridges (1844 - 1930), no title, appears in The Shorter Poems of Robert Bridges, first published 1890
See other settings of this text.
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- DUT Dutch (Nederlands) (Wim Reedijk) , "Ik jubelde en zong de hele dag", copyright ©, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
4. Clear and gentle stream  [sung text not yet checked]
Clear and gentle stream! Known and loved so long, That hast heard the song And the idle dream Of my boyish day; While I once again Down thy margin stray, In the selfsame strain Still my voice is spent, With my old lament And my idle dream, Clear and gentle stream! Where my old seat was Here again I sit, Where the long boughs knit Over stream and grass A translucent eaves: Where back eddies play Shipwreck with the leaves, And the proud swans stray, Sailing one by one Out of stream and sun, And the fish lie cool In their chosen pool. Many an afternoon Of the summer day Dreaming here I lay; And I know how soon, Idly at its hour, First the deep bell hums From the minster tower, And then evening comes, Creeping up the glade, With her lengthening shade, And the tardy boon Of her brightening moon. Clear and gentle stream! Ere again I go Where thou dost not flow, Well does it beseem Thee to hear again Once my youthful song, That familiar strain Silent now so long: Be as I content With my old lament And my idle dream, Clear and gentle stream.
Text Authorship:
- by Robert Seymour Bridges (1844 - 1930), "Elegy", from Poems, first published 1873
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]5. Nightingales  [sung text not yet checked]
Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom Ye learn your song: Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air Bloom the year long! [Nay,]1 barren are those mountains and spent the streams: Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, A throe of the heart, Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, For all our art. Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then, As night is withdrawn [From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,]1 Dream, while the innumerable choir of day Welcome the dawn.
Text Authorship:
- by Robert Seymour Bridges (1844 - 1930), "Nightingales", appears in The Shorter Poems of Robert Bridges, in 5. Book V, first published 1893
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View original text (without footnotes)1 omitted by Weir.
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
6. Haste on, my joys!  [sung text checked 1 time]
Haste on, my joys! your treasure lies In swift, unceasing flight. O haste: for while your beauty flies I seize your full delight. Lo! I have seen the scented flower, Whose tender stems I cull, For her brief date and meted hour Appear more beautiful. O youth, O strength, O most divine For that so short ye prove; Were but your rare gifts longer mine, Ye scarce would win my love. Nay, life itself the heart would spurn, Did once the days restore The days, that once enjoyed return, Return, ah! nevermore.
Text Authorship:
- by Robert Seymour Bridges (1844 - 1930), "Song", appears in The Shorter Poems of Robert Bridges, first published 1890, revised 1899
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]7. Wherefore to‑night so full of care  [sung text not yet checked]
Wherefore to-night so full of care, My soul, revolving hopeless strife, Pointing at hindrance, and the bare Painful escapes of fitful life? Shaping the doom that may befall By precedent of terror past: By love dishonoured, and the call Of friendship slighted at the last? By treasured names, the little store That memory out of wreck could save Of loving hearts, that gone before Call their old comrade to the grave? O soul, be patient: thou shalt find A little matter mend all this; Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss. Again shall pleasure overflow Thy cup with sweetness, thou shalt taste Nothing but sweetness, and shalt grow Half sad for sweetness run to waste. O happy life! I hear thee sing, O rare delight of mortal stuff! I praise my days for all they bring, Yet are they only not enough.
Text Authorship:
- by Robert Seymour Bridges (1844 - 1930), "Dejection", appears in Poems, first published 1879
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]