GOTHIC STORM - Lyrics, Playlists & Videos | Shazam
Apr 13, Track four from the album EPIC EMOTIONAL PIANO composed by Chris Haigh and is released by Gothic Storm for Trailer/promo, film and T.V. out of the years of the 20th century, POPULARMECHANICS has been the chroniclerofthe technology that has changed the world in which we live. Find the song lyrics for Gothic Storm - Top Tracks. Discover top playlists and Whisper Of Hope - Gothic Storm We Meet In Dreams - Gothic Storm. We Meet In.
A silver trumpet Spenser blows, And, as its martial notes to silence flee, From a virgin chorus flows A hymn in praise of spotless chastity. Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers Float along the pleased air, Calling youth from idle slumbers, Rousing them from pleasure's lair — Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move, But when thou joinest with the Nine, And all the powers of song combine, We listen here on earth The dying tones that fill the air, And charm the ear of evening fair, From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth.
To Some Ladies What though while the wonders of nature exploring, I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend; Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring, Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes, With you, kindest friends, in idea I muse; Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes, Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews. Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling? Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?
If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending, Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven; And smiles with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending, The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given; It had not created a warmer emotion Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you, Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.
For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure, And blissful is he who such happiness finds, To possess but a sand in the hour of leisure, In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.
On Receiving a Curious Shell, and a Copy of Verses, from the Same Ladies Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, When it flutters in sun-beams that shine through a fountain?
Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine? That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold? And splendidly mark'd with the story divine Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold? Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?
Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is? Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing? And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd Britomartis? What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave, Embroidered with many a spring-peering flower?
Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave? And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower? I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound In magical powers to bless, and to sooth. On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain; And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain.
This canopy mark 'tis the work of a fay; Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish, When lovely Titania was far, far away, And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish. There, oft would he bring from his soft sighing lute Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listened; The wondering spirits of heaven were mute, And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened.
In this little dome, all those melodies strange, Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh; Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change; Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. So, when I am in a voluptuous vein, I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose, And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain, Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose. Full many the glories that brighten thy youth, I too have my blisses, which richly abound In magical powers, to bless and to sooth.
O come, dearest Emma! And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head There, beauteous Emma, I'll sit at thy feet, While my story of love I enraptured repeat. So fondly I'll breathe, and so softly I'll sigh, Thou wilt think that some amorous zephyr is nigh Yet no — as I breathe I will press thy fair knee, And then thou wilt know that the sigh comes from me.
That mortal's a fool who such happiness misses; So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand, With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly bland. From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd They be of what is worthy, — though not drest In lovely modesty, and virtues rare. Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark; These lures I straight forget, — e'en ere I dine, Or thrice my palate moisten but when I mark Such charms with mild intelligences shine, My ear is open like a greedy shark, To catch the tunings of a voice divine.
Who can forget her half retiring sweets? Surely the All-seeing, Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing, Will never give him pinions, who intreats Such innocence to ruin, — who vilely cheats A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear A lay that once I saw her hand awake, Her form seems floating palpable, and near; Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd, Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
To George Felton Mathew Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song; Nor can remembrance, Mathew!
A Gothic Romance (Red Roses for the Devil's Whore) Lyrics
The thought of this great partnership diffuses Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing. Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream; Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam; Or again witness what with thee I've seen, The dew by fairy feet swept from the green, After a night of some quaint jubilee Which every elf and fay had come to see When bright processions took their airy march Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch.
But might I now each passing moment give To the coy muse, with me she would not live In this dark city, nor would condescend 'Mid contradictions her delights to lend.
Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind, Ah! There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy, To say " joy not too much in all that's bloomy.
Yet this is vain — O Mathew lend thy aid To find a place where I may greet the maid — Where we may soft humanity put on, And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton; And that warm-hearted Shakespeare sent to meet him Four laurell'd spirits, heaven-ward to intreat him.
With reverence would we speak of all the sages Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness, And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness To those who strove with the bright golden wing Of genius, to flap away each sting Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell Of those who in the cause of freedom fell; Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell; Of him whose name to ev'ry heart's a solace, High-minded and unbending William Wallace.
While to the rugged north our musing turns We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns. I marvel much that thou hast never told How, from a flower, into a fish of gold Apollo chang'd thee; how thou next didst seem A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream; And when thou first didst in that mirror trace The placid features of a human face That thou hast never told thy travels strange, And all the wonders of the mazy range O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands; Kissing thy daily food from Naiad's pearly hands.
Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well Would passion arm me for the enterprize But ah!
I am no knight whose foeman dies; No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell; I am no happy shepherd of the dell Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes. Yet must I dote upon thee, — call thee sweet, Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.
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I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet, And when the moon her pallid face discloses, I'll gather some by spells, and incantation. Hadst thou liv'd in days of old Hadst thou liv'd in days of old, O what wonders had been told Of thy lively countenance, And thy humid eyes that dance In the midst of their own brightness; In the very fane of lightness. Over which thine eyebrows, leaning, Picture out each lovely meaning In a dainty bend they lie, Like to streaks across the sky, Or the feathers from a crow, Fallen on a bed of snow.
Of thy dark hair that extends Into many graceful bends As the leaves of hellebore Turn to whence they sprung before. And behind each ample curl Peeps the richness of a pearl. With a glossy waviness; Full, and round like globes that rise From the censer to the skies Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness Of thy honied voice; the neatness Of thine ankle lightly turn'd With those beauties, scarce discern'd, Kept with such sweet privacy, That they seldom meet the eye Of the little loves that fly Round about with eager pry.
Saving when, with freshening lave, Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave; Like twin water lillies, born In the coolness of the morn. O, if thou hadst breathed then, Now the Muses had been ten. Couldst thou wish for lineage higher Than twin sister of Thalia? At least for ever, evermore, Will I call the Graces four. Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry Lifted up her lance on high, Tell me what thou wouldst have been.
I see the silver sheen Of thy broidered, floating vest Cov'ring half thine ivory breast; Which, O heavens! I should see; But that cruel destiny Has placed a golden cuirass there; Keeping secret what is fair. Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested Thy locks in knightly casque are rested O'er which bend four milky plumes Like the gentle lilly's blooms Springing from a costly vase.
See with what a stately pace Comes thine alabaster steed; O'er his loins, his trappings glow Like the northern lights on snow. Sign of the enchanter's death; Bane of every wicked spell; Silencer of dragon's yell. I am as brisk I am as brisk As a bottle of wisk-k Ey and as nimble Give me women, wine, and snuff Give me women, wine and snuff You may do so sans objection Till the day of resurrection; For bless my beard they aye shall be My beloved trinity.
Specimen of an Induction to a Poem Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry; For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye. Not like the formal crest of latter days But bending in a thousand graceful ways; So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand, Could charm them into such an attitude.We Meet In Dreams (Live Piano Performance)
We must think rather, that in playful mood, Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight, To show this wonder of its gentle might.
I must tell a tale of chivalry; For while I muse, the lance points slantingly Athwart the morning air: And from her own pure self no joy dissembling, Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling. Sometimes, when the good knight his rest would take, It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests, And th' half seen mossiness of linnets' nests. Or when his spirit, with more calm intent, Leaps to the honors of a tournament, And makes the gazers round about the ring Stare at the grandeur of the ballancing?
How sing the splendour of the revelries, When buts of wine are drunk off to the lees? And that bright lance, against the fretted wall, Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield, Where ye may see a spur in bloody field?
Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces; Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens: Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens. Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry: Or wherefore comes that steed so proudly by? Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight Rein in the swelling of his ample might?
Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh My daring steps: Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers; Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers. A Fragment Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake; His healthful spirit eager and awake To feel the beauty of a silent eve, Which seem'd full loath this happy world to leave; The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly.
He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, And smiles at the far clearness all around, Until his heart is well nigh over wound, And turns for calmness to the pleasant green Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean And show their blossoms trim.
Scarce can his clear and nimble eye-sight follow The freaks, and dartings of the black-wing'd swallow, Delighting much, to see it half at rest, Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast 'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, The widening circles into nothing gone.
And now the sharp keel of his little boat Comes up with ripple, and with easy float, And glides into a bed of water lillies: Broad leav'd are they and their white canopies Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' dew. Near to a little island's point they grew; Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore Went off in gentle windings to the hoar And light blue mountains: These, gentle Calidore Greeted, as he had known them long before. The sidelong view of swelling leafiness, Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress; Whence ever and anon the jay outsprings, And scales upon the beauty of its wings.
The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn, Stands venerably proud; too proud to mourn Its long lost grandeur: The little chapel with the cross above Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove, That on the window spreads his feathers light, And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight.
Green tufted islands casting their soft shades Across the lake; sequester'd leafy glades, That through the dimness of their twilight show Large dock leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow Of the wild cat's eyes, or the silvery stems Of delicate birch trees, or long grass which hems These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught A trumpet's silver voice.
Friends very dear to him he soon will see; So pushes off his boat most eagerly, And soon upon the lake he skims along, Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song; Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly: His spirit flies before him so completely. And now he turns a jutting point of land, Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches, Before the point of his light shallop reaches Those marble steps that through the water dip Now over them he goes with hasty trip, And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors Anon he leaps along the oaken floors Of halls and corridors.
What a kiss, What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand! How tremblingly their delicate ancles spann'd! Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone, While whisperings of affection Made him delay to let their tender feet Come to the earth; with an incline so sweet From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent And whether there were tears of languishment, Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their tresses, He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye All the soft luxury That nestled in his arms.
A dimpled hand, Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers Of whitest cassia, fresh from summer showers And this he fondled with his happy cheek As if for joy he would no further seek; When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond Came to his ear, like something from beyond His present being: Amid the pages, and the torches' glare There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair Of his proud horse's mane: So that the waving of his plumes would be High as the berries of a wild ash tree, Or as the winged cap of Mercury.
His armour was so dexterously wrought In shape, that sure no living man had thought It hard, and heavy steel: Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated; The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greeted All the green leaves that round the window clamber, To show their purple stars, and bells of amber. Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel, Gladdening in the free and airy feel Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond Is looking round about him with a fond And placid eye, young Calidore is burning To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning Of all unworthiness; and how the strong of arm Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm From lovely woman while brimful of this, He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss, And had such manly ardour in his eye, That each at other look'd half staringly; And then their features started into smiles Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles.
Softly the breezes from the forest came, Softly they blew aside the taper's flame; Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower; Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower; Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpet's tone; Lovely the moon in ether, all alone Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals, As that of busy spirits when the portals Are closing in the west; or that soft humming We hear around when Hesperus is coming. Sweet be their sleep. To one who has been long in city pent To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.
There warm my breast with patriotic lore, Musing on Milton's fate — on Sydney's bier — Till their stern forms before my mind arise Perhaps on the wing of poesy upsoar, Full often dropping a delicious tear, When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes. To a Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses As late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew From his lush clover covert; — when anew Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer graceful it grew As is the wand that queen Titania wields.
I could be content Happy is England!
- A Gothic Romance (Red Roses for the Devil's Whore)
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I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment For skies Italian, and an inward groan To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling meant.
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging Yet do I often warmly burn to see And float with them about the summer waters. To My Brother George Many the wonders I this day have seen The sun, when first he kist away the tears That fill'd the eyes of morn; — the laurel'd peers Who from the feathery gold of evening lean; — The ocean with its vastness, its blue green, Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, — Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears Must think on what will be, and what has been.
The buds are breaking through, As though the heart of all things No languor ever knew. Call to their heavenly choirs. The pines are blued and drifted With smoke of brushwood fires. Who comes with joy to-day, So frail, yet so enduring, To triumph o'er dismay? Ah, quick her tears are springing, And quickly they are dried, For sorrow walks before her, But gladness walks beside. She comes with gusts of laughter,— The music as of rills; With tenderness-and sweetness, — The wisdom of the hills.
Her hands are strong to comfort, Her heart is quick to heed. She knows the signs of sadness, She knows the voice of need.
There is no living creature, However poor or small, But she will know its trouble, And hasten to its call. How fine and clear His plaintive voice comes ringing With rapture to the ear!
Over the misty wood-lots, Across the first spring heat, Comes the enchanted cadence, How often I have hearkened To that high pealing strain Across wild cedar barrens, Under the soft gray rain! How often I have wondered, And longed in vain to know The source of that enchantment, That touch of human woe! O brother, who first taught thee To haunt the teeming spring With that sad mortal wisdom Which only age can bring?
And when that mortal likeness Has been dissolved by fire, Say not above the ashes, "Here ends a man's desire. Then dreamful-hearted lovers Shall hear in wind and rain The cadence of his music, The rhythm of his refrain, For he was a blade of the April sod That bowed and blew with the whisper of God. OH, well the world is dreaming Under the April moon, Her soul in love with beauty, Her senses all a-swoon!