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Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping!

This silence too the while Its very hush and creeping

Seem whispering us a smile: Something divine and dim

Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of cherubim,

Who say, "We've finish'd here."

The leap was quick, return was quick, he has

regain'd the place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right

in the lady's face. "By God!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he

rose from where he sat; "No love," quoth he, “but vanity sets love a

task like that!"

The Glove and the Lions.

The Fish, the Man, and the Spirit. King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a

To fish. royal sport,

You strange, astonish'd-looking, angle-fac'd, And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking Dreary-mouth'd, gaping wretches of the sea, on the court;

Gulping salt water everlastingly, The nobles fill’d the benches round, the ladies Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be by their side,

grac'd, And ’mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste; one for whom he sigh’d:

And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be, And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry, crowning show,

Legless, unloving, infamously chaste; Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laugh What is't ye do? What life lead? eh, dull ing jaws;

goggles ? They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a How do ye vary your vile days and nights?

wind went with their paws; How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rollid

joggles on one another,

In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes, and Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a

bites, thunderous smother;

And drinks, and stares, diversified with bogThe bloody foam above the bars came whizzing

gles? through the air: Said Francis, then, "Faith gentlemen, we're better here than there.”

A Fish answers. De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, Amazing monster! that, for aught I know, lively dame,

With the first sight of thee didst make our With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which

always seem'd the same; For ever stare! O flat and shocking face, She thought, The count, my lover, is brave as Grimly divided from the breast below! brave can be

Thou, that on dry land horribly dost go He surely would do wondrous things to show

With a split body, and most ridiculous pace his love of me:

Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace, King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion Long-useless-finn'd, hair’d, upright, unwet, slow!

is divine, I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.

O breather of unbreathable, sword-ship air,

How canst exist! How bear thyself, thou dry She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then And dreary sloth? What particle canst share

look'd at him and smil'd; Of the only blessed life, the watery? He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the I sometimes see of ye an actual pair lions wild:

Go by! link'd fin by fin! most odiously.

race

saw,

The Fish turns into a Man, and then intol Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel. a Spiril, and again speaks.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still,

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, O man! and loathe, but with a sort of love;

And For difference must itself by difference prove,

within the moonlight in his room, And, with sweet clang, the spheres with music Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel, writing in a book of gold; fill.

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold: One of the spirits am I, that at their will

And to the presence in the room he said, Live in whate'er has life fish, eagle, “What writest thou?” The vision rais’d its head,

dove No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above, Answer'd, "The names of those who love the

And, with a look made of all sweet accord, A visiter of the rounds of God's sweet skill.

Lord,”

“And is mine one?” said Abou. "Nay, not so;" Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

graves,

But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then, Boundless in hope, honour'd with pangs Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”

austere, Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he craves: The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet It came again, with a great wakening light,

clear,

And shew'd the names whom love of God had A cold sweet silver life, wrapp'd in round waves,

bless'd, Quicken'd with touches of transporting fear. And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Norton.

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton, die Tochter von Thomas und die Enkelin von Richard Brinsley Sheridan, ward in London 1808 geboren, vermählte sich in ihrem neunzehnten Jahre mit dem Hon. George Chapple Norton und ward später von ihm, nach englischer Sitte, öffentlich vor Gericht der Untreue angeklagt, ging aber rein und fleckenlos aus diesem skandalösen Process, dem, wie es hiess, eine politische Intrigue zu Grunde lag, hervor. Eine Trennung von ihrem Gatten erfolgte; Mistress Norton nahm darauf ihren Wohnsitz auf längere Zeit in Paris.

Sie hat zwei grössere Dichtungen The Sorrows of Rosalie und the Undying One, so wie viele kleinere lyrische Poesieen geschrieben, die sich sämmtlich durch Grazie, Energie und Gedankenfülle, weniger jedoch durch schöpferische Phantasie auszeichnen.

The Mourner s.

Low she lies, who blest our eyes

Through many a sunny day;
She may not smile, she will not rise,

The life hath past away!
Yet there is a world of light beyond,

Where we neither die nor sleep;
She is there, of whom our souls were fond,

Then wherefore do we weep?

The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told

In each glance of her glad bright eye;
And she lies pale, who was so bright,

She scarce seemed made to die.
Yet we know that her soul is happy now,

Where the saints their calm watch keep;
That angels are crowning that fair young brow, -

Then wherefore do we weep?

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And thine was many an art to win and bless,
The cold and stern to joy and fondness

warming;
The coaxing smile; the frequent soft ca-

ress; The Mother's Heart.

The earnest tearful prayer all wrath dis

arming! When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest Again my heart a new affection found,

But thought that love with thee had reach'd treasure,

its bound. My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought any love again might be

At length thou camest; thou, the last and So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

least;

Nick-named "the Emperor,” by thy laughing Faithful and fond, with sense beyond thy years,

brothers, And natural piety lean'd to heaven;

Because a haughty spirit swell’d thy breast, Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the Yet patient of rebuke when justly given:

others; Obedient, easy to be reconciled;

Mingling with every playful infant wile And meekly cheerful, such wert thou, my

A mimic majesty that made us smile: child!

And oh! most like a regal child wert thou! Not willing to be left; still by my side

An eye of resolute and successful scheming; Haunting my walks, while summer-day was Fair shoulders curling lip and dauntless dying;

brow Nor leaving in thy turn: but pleased to glide Fit for the world's strife, not for Poet's dreamThro' the dark room where I was sadly lying,

ing: Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,

And proud the lifting of thy stately head, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim, Summer is gone: and autumn's soberer hues

I, that all other love had been forswearing, Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;

corn; Nor injured either, by this love's comparing; The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, Nor stole a fraction for the newer call,

Shouts the halloo! and winds his eager horn. But in the mother's heart found room for all! “Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze

On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream,
To watch in silence while the evening rays
Slant through the fading trees with ruddy

gleam!
Cooler the breezes play around my brow;
I am content to die, but, oh! not now!"

brow;

The Child of Earth.

The bleak wind whistles: snow-showers, far and Fainter her slow step falls from day to day,

near, Death's hand is heavy on her darkening Drift without echo to the whitening ground:

Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear, Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say, Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound:

“I am content to die, - but, oh! not now! Yet still that prayer ascends. “Oh! laughingly Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring My little brothers round the warm hearth Make the warm air such luxury to breathe;

crowd, Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing; Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and Not while bright flowers around my footsteps

high, wreathe.

And the roof rings with voices light and Spare me, great God! lift up my drooping

loud: brow;

Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow! I am content to die, - but, oh! not now!". I am content to die, but, oh! not now!"

The spring hath ripened into summer time; The spring is come again the joyful spring!

The season's viewless boundary is past; Again the banks with clustering flowers are The glorious sun hath reached his burning

spread; prime:

The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing: Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the The child of earth is numbered with the dead!

last?

“Thee never more the sunshine shall awake, "Let me not perish while o'er land and lea, Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane;

With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on; The steps of friends thy slumbers may not Not while the murmur of the mountain-bee

break, Greets my dull ear with music in its tone! Nor fond familiar voice arouse again! Pale sickness dims my eye and clouds my Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow;

brow;

Why didst thou linger? thou art happier I am content to die, but, oh! not now!"

now!"

Rogers.

Samuel Rogers ward 1762 in London geboren, wo sein Vater als Bankier lebte, erhielt eine sehr sorgfältige Bildung, machte grössere Reisen und trat dann in das väterliche Geschäft ein, seinen fortwährenden Aufenthalt in London, nur dann und wann durch einen Ausflug nach dem Festlande unterbrechend. Nach einigen Angaben starb er bereits 1832, nach Anderen, und dies scheint das Richtigere zu sein, lebt er noch in sehr hohem Alter.

Er gab heraus: Ode on Superstition and other Poems. London 1786. The pleasures of Memory, London 1792; Epistle to a Friend, London 1798; The vision of Columbus; Jacqueline; Human Life, London 1819; Poems, London 1815; Italy, London 1822, 5. Aufl. London 1830; Poems, London 1834, 2 Bde; u. A. m.

Sehr treffend characterisirt Sharon Turner ihn als Dichter in folgenden Zeilen:

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