National Lyrics, and Songs for Music/The Curfew Song of England

For other versions of this work, see The Song of the Curfew.


THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.




Hark! from the dim church-tower,
    The deep slow curfew's chime!
—A heavy sound unto hall and bower,
    In England's olden time!
Sadly 'twas heard by him who came
    From the fields of his toil at night,
And who might not see his own hearth-flame
    In his children's eyes make light.

Sternly and sadly heard,
    As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow,
Which had cheered the board with the mirthful word,
    And the red wine's foaming flow!

Until that sullen boding knell
    Flung out from every fane,
On harp and lip, and spirit, fell,
    With a weight and with a chain.

Woe for the pilgrim then,
    In the wild deer's forest far!
No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men,
    Might guide him, as a star.
And woe for him whose wakeful soul,
    With lone aspirings fill'd,
Would have liv'd o'er some immortal scroll,
    While the sounds of earth were still'd!

And yet a deeper woe
    For the watcher by the bed,
Where the fondly lov'd in pain lay low,
    In pain and sleepless dread!

For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep
    By the dying babe, her place,
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep,
    Yet not behold its face!

Darkness in chieftain's hall!
    Darkness in peasant's cot!
While freedom, under that shadowy pall,
    Sat mourning o'er her lot.
Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize!
    For blood hath flow'd like rain,
Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries
    Of England's homes again.

Heap the yule-faggots high,
    Till the red light fills the room!
It is home's own hour when the stormy sky
    Grows thick with evening-gloom.

Gather ye round the holy hearth,
    And by its gladdening blaze,
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
    With a thought of the olden days!