Who
takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise
With
him mayst rise:
That
as his death calcined thee to dust,
His
life may make thee gold, and much more, just.
Awake,
my lute, and struggle for thy part
With
all thy art.
The
crosse that taught all wood to resound his name,
Who
bore the same.
His
stretched sinews taught all strings, what key
Is
best to celebrate this most high day.
Consort
both heart and lute, and twist a song
Pleasant
and long:
Or,
since all musick is but three parts vied
And
multiplied,
O
let thy blessed Spirit bear a part,
And
make up our defects with his sweet art.
I
got me flowers to straw thy way;
I
got me boughs off many a tree:
But
thou wast up by break of day,
And
brought’st thy sweets along with thee.
The
Sunne arising in the East,
Though
he give light, & th’East perfume;
If
they should offer to contest
With
thy arising, they presume.
Can
there be any day but this,
Though
many sunnes to shine endeavour?
We
count three hundred, but we misse:
There
is but one, and that one ever.
To hear Ralph Vaughn Williams' musical setting for this poem,
click on the video below:
click on the video below:
Poem source
Video source
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